In the preface to Welcome To The Monkey House, Kurt Vonnegut talks about “commiting suicide by cigarette.”    He thinks his own behavior is hideous, scorning life.

Me, well, I’m committing suicide by soft drink.  In my case it’s Coca-Cola.

Diabetes may be a softer way to go than lung cancer, but from eyes to toes, I can feel it.

= = = = = = = =

TBB had a lovely New Year’s Eve.   She got attention and affirmation from a beautiful and worldly ex Pan-Am flight attendant.   It felt good, even when the other woman’s date took her back.

Of course, TBB felt beautiful last night to start with.   Her hair is newly done, and her mother complimented her on the black dress she chose, slimming that showed off her figure.  Her kids were there with her, she is back to doing work she loves and is good at.  It is good.

TBB is flying back to the ship in a few days, after a screening of her movie in Austin, but she has that glow, you know?

= = = = = = = = = =

Me, well, not so much.

My parents wanted me to go out with my sister and her friends.  Yes, the same sister who told me she would call the authorities and have me removed from the home as a danger to my parents, that one.  And her boyfriend, who I struggled with on Christmas night, my conversation whizzing past him even with my best efforts to connect.

Instead, I got a missive from a beautiful transwoman locked in her room, explaining that she knows that other people are hell and she has no real hope of change beyond her own walls and defenses.  It is her lifemyth, the story she believes, holding dreams of machines she can control which free her.

There was only one thing I really, really wanted this year, and that was the chance to take an advocacy position for trans rights.  I didn’t even get the chance to try, because I respected and enforced the walls of this house.

Around 1 AM last night I went up to find my father hadn’t turned off the lights for my mother, who hasn’t used the stairlift in a week and a half.  I had been in the basement sobbing for around an hour and a half, pleading for death, a ritual by now.

“I hope that your 2009 is better,” she said to me.

I told her that I couldn’t imagine fuck-all ways that would happen.

“I’ll do whatever I can to help,” she continued.

Yeah, well, if she can’t even do what she says she is going to do and makes me wait on her, literally wait, well, then clearly there is little she can do to help.

My parents need consistency, not change.

And a classic program maxim says that one definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

No change, well, no change.

= = = = = = = = = =

And so, a broken Volvo. a broken heart, a broken & wasted life, and fuck-all little hope.

Welcome 2009