Monstrous  By  W. Bruce Watson
Some people are monstrous, and some of these are women. Oh I’m not talking about the child beaters, or about the woman whose 9 year old son was killed by her two Pit Bulls, because, as she said, “He didn’t stay in the basement like I told him when I went out this morning, because the bitch was in heat and I’d put them in the family room.” And I’m not talking about the mother who, when told that her son had been killed in Iraq, responded dispassionately, “Well, that’s what they’re for, isn’t it?” No, I could be talking about the Torquemadonna who nearly killed me during a recent stress test, who seemingly gleefully adjusted the treadmill to produce the maximum stress for my 65 year old body w/o benefit of any warm up. Was she hoping to relieve the monotony of her day, her life, by watching me wheeze and heave my guts out, or better yet see me keel over w/ a heart attack right before her eyes? No, that’s not it either.

No, I’m talking about the death camp commandantress on the staff of the local mammogram facility, the one who inflicted the horrible bruises on my wife’s breasts, bruises that are still visible although it’s been over a week. The truck, as my wife refers to the apparatus, would’ve been a delight to the masters of the Inquisition, had they only thought of it.. One can’t help but wonder why they didn’t. When her gynecologist saw the bruises at her appointment this week, he was visibly taken aback, “Why didn’t you scream?” Well, why indeed? That’s a whole other story. “Because, as children, we were taught not to scream,” she replied simply.
The truth is, after much furrowing of brow, I can't think of anything to say by way of preface to my blog. Along the way I wondered what it's purpose might be and maybe I should say a few words about that and would, except that I don't know what its purpose is, or could be, or should be. I only know that my clock is winding down and I'm so desperate to have my mind known that I could just spit! Maybe my blog could be about that. But how depressing and pretentious that could be! But hold on a second, maybe not—my therapist commented the other day how in late adulthood (AKA elder years), one is forced to deal with the sense of loss, all the time, it's always there, and it's painful, it takes great faith to live on even though one knows it's going to end and that whatever they accomplish, if anything, is not going to matter all that much. How does one find meaning or a sense of fulfillment in life knowing that it’s coming to an end? Psychologists have not written much about this if anything. It's sort of an unexamined part of adult life. It takes a lot of self-discipline to function in spite of this sense of loss—it's so easy to give up on the constant struggle, on life. A lot of people do—drinking, TV, drugs, electrosex, So, if you'll bear with me, let us examine this unexamined part of adult life.
Copyright © 2011 W. Bruce Watson, Inc. All rights reserved.  
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