Today on Blogcritics
Home » This Time Darling, It Just Ain’t the Same

This Time Darling, It Just Ain’t the Same

Please Share...Print this pageTweet about this on Twitter0Share on Facebook0Share on Google+0Pin on Pinterest0Share on TumblrShare on StumbleUpon0Share on Reddit0Email this to someone

“As I’m looking back on broken down dreams, heartbreaks and memories that I’ve had/I made it through the hard times and came back a stronger man/But this time darling it’s just not the same/Down the lonely stairs with a suitcase in my hand/misery can be a heavy load./I’ve made it through the hard times and in pain I made it back/but this time darling it’s just not the same.”
“This Time Darling” – Social Distortion

It’s been a depressing sort of week. Not the sort of get blind and stupid drunk while sitting behind your desk sending out crazed nonsensical texts to your entire address book with the music turned up to ELEVEN as you laugh like a maniacal madman screaming at the mostly full moon (though I did do that..mostly anyway).

Can you say intervention? I can and I really wish you wouldn’t!

No, it’s a sort of soft melancholy – the separating of lives entwined for more than a decade. Rough stuff. That’s hers, this is mine…ugh…this stinks. That’s ours. Lots of “that’s ours.” Oooops, crash, boom, bang…nobody’s now.

Remember when we got that? Oh, and what about that? Yeah, that was a good day. At the same time, remember where that scratch came from and why that picture frame has a crack in it? That was a bad day.

And then amidst the ball of confusion (that’s what the world is today, hey! hey!) is all the other stuff. The whips and whirls of thoughts that haven’t completely coalesced into tangible reality – stuff still up there in the neither region just out of grasp but nagging at your soul anyway.

Like paint on the tip of a brush, a blank canvas in front of you…the idea is there but nothing to look at, not yet anyway.

Cuba, military, this, that, him, her, all that and more and I heard a midget was sitting on JP Morgan’s lap while the bearded lady snuck a kiss under the mistletoe with the thin man – I have no idea what that means but I heard it.

And this is the shit that keeps me awake at night, I mean really, what the hell is a midget doing on JP Morgan’s lap anyway?! What, was he trying to collect on TARP funds or something? Or was it something much more nefarious? Much more insidious…I’ve decided I must seek out and speak with this midget. I’m fairly certain he holds the key to many things.

See, how in the world am I supposed to be focused on one thing, let alone the many things that are currently fighting for attention in my world, with lap-sitting midgets running around the world.

I’m pretty sure this is why they want me committed.

Well bollocks to them I say, let’s press on! Where was I anyway…that fucking midget…Oh yes, depressing week.

But not all is lost; in the midst of a pending road trip full of fury, rage, and heartbreak, I get to see one of the very few things that mean anything to me anymore – my son (I wonder if he knows anything about the midget) and that makes it all worth it. The packing, tearing asunder of two lives, that bright spot, that blond-haired mirror image of myself, he makes it worth it.

And the shows – I’ve taken to doing radio shows again, they’re brought to you by the letters “A” the number “4” and everything in between. And that’s been a bright spot. Hell, a bit of this column was brought to you by Mr. B and the personality he allows me to be, but that’s another story entirely.

But the midget…hmmm, must come back to that. Definitely deserves some follow up.

Anyway, packing up, separating two very messy lives into lots of very neat boxes. Harsh.

Oh well, I think I’m going to go try and find that god damn midget.

Oh and if Meghan McCain happens to stop by, please tell her where my office is!

Powered by

About Mr. B

%d bloggers like this: