goodbye

The goodbye letters and packages have been sent.  The shop is empty.  Hot Wax Unlimited is history.  The loose ends have been tied.  Nothing left to do but the doing.

I can't help but think of all the people whose lives my departure will affect.  My mother, absolutely.  The law officer given the task of informing my mother.  The person who discovers me.  The folks who'll have to handle me.  The family member asked to ID my body.  My sisters, who'll have the difficult task of trying to console my mother.  They'll also have to speak the words, "my brother killed himself."  To all of you, let me apologize in advance.  I am deeply, deeply sorry.

They'll say I was depressed.  I've read depression defined as "anger turned inward."  I'm not angry.  I'm just...finished.  I've done what I could with what I was given.

They'll call me things.  Loser.  Quitter.  Wimp.  Pussy.  All true.

They'll say, "But, he was so good at _______."  Well, being good at things hasn't made me rich, hasn't made me happy and doesn't get me laid.  What's the use?
 
Thirty years ago, a shipmate said to me, "You have trouble dealing with life."  I didn't want to hear that, especially from him.  He was right, of course.

I am grateful for my twenty-four years in the DJ business.  I routinely saw people at their best, enjoyed following pop music and got paid to do something that I would have done for free.  I was put on the Earth to be a DJ, and I've done it.

I'll say it again--I've become someone that the world can do without.  I'm an asshole that no one likes, and I can't deal with that any longer.  I'm tired of being alive.

This blog amounts to little more than a bunch of whining.  If you choose not to read any further, I'll understand.

Thank you for stopping by.

Peace out!
Jeff Fluker

one week

long sigh...(lots of those, lately)

I have one more week on this Earth.

Things seem to be working out.  I have just enough money to rent this hotel room for my remaining days.  I've enjoyed the shower, bed, A/C, TV and Wi-Fi.  Sleeping in the van was kind of a bummer.

I spent today assembling a cheer mix.  I like the finished product, but the editing gave me a headache.

For my last DJ gig ever, I will play at a wedding this Saturday.  Nice couple.  The bride is a real stunner.  Turn-and-stare gorgeous.

Sunday, I'll assemble and deliver the sound systems for my Mardi Gras float customers.  Monday, I'll finish clearing out the shop.  Tuesday, I'll send the goodbye letters and packages, and then...sayonara.

the thought

The thought has moved to the front of my mind--I'm planning something awful.   I'm scared.

Mr. Fix-It

When I get a call, I rarely hear "Jeff, let's hang out.  Jeff, let's go get a drink.  Jeff, I'm bored.  Jeff, I'm lonely.  Jeff, I'm horny."

I usually hear, "Jeff, I need your help."

I've always been good with my hands.  I can do stuff.  I can build stuff.  I can fix stuff.  I understand how things work.  I have tools, a van, a hand truck and fair-to-middling physical strength.  I'm the guy people call when they have a problem.

Being Mr. Fix-It is my lot in life, and I try hard to accept it.  Some people pay me.  Some say thanks and try to return the favor.  Often, there is no reciprocity, especially when doing favors for women.  After allowing several females to take advantage of me, I finally learned a hard lesson--being her "bitch" will not spark attraction.

I'm done being the handyman no one wants to socialize with.  Mr. Fix-It is retiring.  Permanently.

stuff

I've spent the past few weeks going through my stuff, deciding what to sell, what to send to folks, what to give away and what to toss.  I've been brutally unsentimental.  In the end, it's all gotta go.

These things are not just things tho...they're artifacts.  Timepieces from each phase of my life, with  attached memories, usually of some person.  Photos.  Newspaper clippings.  A perfume bottle and pair of panties.  Concert ticket stubs.  The pen-and-ink master Hot Wax Unlimited logo.  Navy discharge.  College diploma.  So much stuff.  So many memories made with so very many people.

A story of my grandmother, Miss Olga Jones, comes to mind.  After sorting through the many belongings of her late sister-in-law, she began a purge her of own "stuff," stating firmly, "I ain't leavin' all this shit for someone else to have to go through!"

Her words have stayed with me, and I'm doing my best to follow her example.  Clearing out the shop.  Closing accounts.  Getting rid of everything.

Saying goodbye.

like father, like son

Much like me, my father was a hating-life S.O.B.  Moody.  Violent.  Frustrated.  Impatient. Used-to-be jock and wannabe artist.  Socially impaired.  He had a sharp tongue and a big mouth.  He liked to fist fight.  He drank.  He couldn't keep a job.  Abusive husband.  Wholly unfit parent.  He couldn't get along, couldn't deal with life, couldn't figure it out.  He was tremendously unhappy.

He should have offed himself, no question.  Maybe he didn't have the guts.  Maybe he thought that course of action unmanly.  Perhaps he didn't realize that he was the problem.  It might be that the idea of "early check-out" just didn't occur to him.  Who can say?

My mom has told me that I'm a lot like him.  I inherited many of his personality traits.  Like him, I don't mesh well with this world or the people in it.  Maybe I've always been someone that the world can do without.

cats

I miss my cats.  During Eviction One, I took them to my sister's place in Poplarville, MS.  They freaked out, peed in every bed, got tossed outside and disappeared.  I hate myself for allowing this to happen.  They trusted me, and now they're gone.

I have loved and cared for many felines, beginning with a black-and-white tuxedoed stray that I named Velcro.  She had four babies--Amos 'n' Andy, Patches and Junior Kitty.  Mavis (from upstairs) moved in, and had an adorable little boy kitten that I named Boo.  A vagabond that I called simply "Mommy Cat" had four precocious male offspring--Noodles, Copper, Fluffy and Bottle Brush Kitty.  Baby was euthanized...cancer.  Another mommy cat showed up and gave birth in the days after Katrina, giving us the gorgeous but aloof Grey Kitty, and affectionate lap-cat and loyal friend of seven years, Tabby.

No cats, no connections, no future.  Tired of the isolation.  Tired of crying.

I am SO outta here--two weeks from today!

three more gigs

Twenty-four years in the DJ business are coming to a close.  Doing the first of the final three gigs tonight. 

Helping to create a fun and memorable dance party will distract me from myself, for a while. Playing the smiling, upbeat entertainer will be difficult, tho.  I'll need help!  I'll listen attentively for the muse.  Oh DJ muse--Please tell me what to do!

Professional pride will kick in.  I like these people, and want them to enjoy their wedding.  I'll do my best...

reasons

Why do I want to die?  Because trying to live with nothing to live for is just too fucking hard.

I possess none of the "normal" anchors that keep middle-aged folks in the game.  I've invested in nothing.  No house.  No savings.  No family.  No career.  My peak earning years have come and gone, and I have little to show for them.  I'm tired.  Here at age forty-eight, I don't have the energy (or desire) to start over again from zero.

I've mentioned health issues in other posts.  There exists a raft of middle-aged-fat-guy ailments, and I have them ALL!  Years of over-eating have yielded GERD, high cholesterol and Type-2 diabetes.  Obesity and repeated gout attacks have destroyed my knees.  All the result of lifestyle choices.  All preventable.

Other conditions are genetic.  My family tree has high blood pressure, cancer and heart attack on one side and Parkinson's on the other.  I'm heading into the decade where these killers begin to kill.  Why continue walking this Earth?  To waste away from some disease?  I watched my grandmother shrivel up and die, scared and helpless.  I just don't care to go out that way.  I'm gonna do this my way, on my terms, by my own hand. 

The "dick" thing--yeah, it's a real problem.  Don't have much, and what I've got doesn't work so well. I've learned that my words and actions telegraph my "shortcoming."  Attractive women just know that I have a small one, and stay far, far away.

"Nothing is very much fun, anymore."-Roger Waters

Of all the pastimes in this life, I have truly enjoyed only four: eating, sleeping, listening to music and masturbating.  Age and medical issues have forced a radical change in my eating habits.  Nowadays, gorging myself at some buffet makes my heart race and keeps me awake all night.  Pizza gives me indigestion.  Bopping the Bishop no longer provides joy or real release.  Just getting it up is a challenge.  The desire is gone, and I've stopped thinking about it.  Rock'n'roll music, my greatest love, has gone by the wayside, too.  Tinnitus in my left ear keeps me from cranking it like used to.  Every song I hear dredges up a memory that I'd just as soon not remember.  Thank goodness for sleep--it's the only thing I still sorta enjoy.  

I display mental illness and a personality disorder.  I can't get along with anyone.  I'm unable to focus.  I'm lazy.  I'm a crazy, cranky asshole that nobody likes.  I have most definitely become someone that the world can do without.

classic signs

About three weeks to go, and I've begun to exhibit all the classic signs.  Outwardly upbeat because I've made the decision.  Tying up "loose ends."  No energy.  Giving stuff away.  I've lost weight.  I've lost interest.

It's a puzzle.  No one person sees all of the pieces, but if they did, would they put them together?

Jeff, are you really gonna do this?!?!

goodbye letters, pt.2

I'm almost done writing the goodbye letters.  My God, I haven't cried this much...ever!

As I re-read the letters, I find that I'm not saying goodbye--I'm saying I love you.  I've shared some measure of genuine friendship with each of these people.  I've tried to describe for them the special place that they held in my world.  I've thanked them for sweetening my existence.  I hope that I've chosen just the right words.

Why now, tho?  Why have I decided to express all these lovely sentiments on my way out?  Why didn't I write these things in a Christmas or birthday card, or just say them out loud?

Yes, I've had rich relationships with some extraordinary people.

Rich enough to make me want to stick around?

No.  Sorry.

crying again...

what will they say

What will people say when they hear the news?  Some guesses:

Mom-"This is just like Jeff--doing exactly what he wants to do.  No consideration."
Jeana-"He said he wouldn't do this as long as Mom is alive..."
Shannon-"He was an asshole.  I won't miss him at all."
Michelle-"Shot himself?  That figures.  When things get real, he RUNS!  Pussy!"
Russell-"If he'd just gotten married, he mighta been happier."
Joan-"He was troubled..."
Gretchen-"I'm sorry he's dead, but he was a freeloader."
Lee-"Why? There was nothing wrong with him."
Rebecca-"Permanent solution to a temporary problem."
Sammy-"I liked Jeff.  He just didn't like himself."  (Thank you, Sammy!  Always a kind soul.)
Jeff-"He hinted at this. I didn't see him actually going through with it."
Gene-"He was like a raw nerve."
Dr. Jensen-"I tried to medicate him."
Lydia-"I tried to counsel him."
Dorothy-"I tried to save him."

i bought a gun

Yes, I bought a gun at the pawn shop across the street.  It's an imported, no-name .38 special six-shot revolver.  Box of hollow-points, too.

I plan to do the deed in the hospital parking lot, just outside the door.  I'll go inside, and show the admitting nurse my driver's license and it's "organ donor" indication.  I'll give her contact information for my mother, and ask her to pass it along to the police.

Then, I'll step outside, kiss my grandmother's picture, pray for my mother's forgiveness, and probably start crying.

The gun...

First, I'll cock the hammer.  The clerk called this "double action" and said it makes for an "easier trigger-pull."  I'll put the barrel in my mouth, and point it back-center and up, slightly.  The round should strike my brain stem, severing the connection between brain and body.  Death should come quickly.

I'm sooo ready for this to be over.  I've just spent a rainy holiday weekend with no gig, little money, nothing to do and no one to hang with.  Life sucks.

goodbye letters

I've written the first of the goodbye letters--the one that I'll send to my mother.

It's short, terse and matter-of-fact.  I've assured her that my "departure" was not her fault.  I've told her that my suffering is over, and I've asked her to be happy for me.

As my suffering ends, hers begins.  But, maybe a bit of hers ends, too.  I'm certain that she's grown tired of hearing her almost fifty-year-old son whine about life.  To be sure, the past five years have been a real downer--crippling gout attacks, buying a van I couldn't afford, bankruptcy, eviction, losing my precious kitty cats, business failure and eviction (again) after a tree fell on my place.  More than once, my mother has seen my number on her caller ID and thought "It's my son with his crisis-du-jour."  I wanted to call and tell her that I was buying a house, that I'd gotten engaged, that she'd be a grandma or that I'd made "partner" (doing some job where one eventually makes "partner".)  Instead, she got  to hear me bitch about the fallout from my stupid life choices.  Who wants to hear that crap, year after year?

She always listens.  She always tries to help.  Bless her.

This time, I just can't be helped.  I hope she understands.

small dick

Small dick.

Nothing else matters.

recurring dream

I had it again, last night.

In the dream, I'm somehow talking with my late maternal grandmother, Miss Olga Jones.
I ask her "Does it hurt to die?"  She replies "Yes, but you only have to do it once."

Not sure what this dream means.  It makes me cry.

self loathing

How do I hate me? Let me count the ways...

big head
big nose
big feet
jutting jaw
crooked teeth
stocky body
odd proportioning
old
fat
broke
homeless
unhealthy 
no "game"
talk too much
no discipline (with money, food, time, exercise)
owe a fortune in student loans
shouldn't have declared bankruptcy
shouldn't have bought that goddamned van
burned out
college degree I don't use
failing business
un-cool last name
un-masculine first name
no close friends
no sex
no social intelligence
really small dick
tired of everything

"go talk to her"

That's what people say when I tell them I'm interested in a woman.  "Dude--just go talk to her!"

If only it were that simple.

Women are lovely creatures--nice to look at.  Talking to them scares the shit out of me.  I've never known what to say, or how to say it.  I come off as a creep, an idiot or an asshole.  Michelle enjoyed reminding me that I have "no game, whatsoever."  Ouch!

Just this morning, I crossed paths with an about-my-age cutie-pie carrying a box into the post office.  Tallish.  Pretty dress.  Pretty feet.  I held the door for her, and she smiled and said "Thank You."  I watched her walk away.  Maybe she's got a husband or a boyfriend, maybe not.  Maybe she's single and "looking," maybe not.  Maybe she'll meet me for coffee.  Maybe, just maybe, she'll wrap her legs around my head and scream "OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod."  Maybe not.  I'll never know, because, I don't have the balls to "go talk to her," or the "game" to do so smoothly.

One gesture, two words and I'm smitten.  This happens all day, every day.   She was just being "nice."  I know that.  What the fuck is wrong with me? 

My inability to talk with women is profoundly depressing.  Its alright, tho.  I have a plan...

will i go to heaven

Is there a heaven?  Will I be allowed entry?  Will I be greeted by someone I loved?  Maybe Olga "Heartsy" Jones, my maternal grandmother?  "Nana" Susie, the godmother who took her own life years ago?  Bob Siler, mechanical genius and fatherly Navy division chief?  Will St. Peter stand at the gate, reviewing my profile and history online? (surely Heaven is computerized by now)  Will he consider all the things that I've done, not just the impulsive, reckless, unkind and just plain stupid?

Will I meet God?  Will he be angry?  Are questions allowed?
 
If there's a heaven, then there's also probably a hell.  I'm not afraid.  It can't be worse that the shit-rut I'm currently in.

I think this through every day.  It still seems like the right choice.

The decision

The decision has been made.

I can't tell anyone but you. I can't share this with family or "friends."  If I tell the VA psychiatrist, she'll have me committed, delaying the inevitable.

long sigh...

Yesterday, I sold all my records for $100.00.  Albums.  12" singles.  45s dating back to my very first high school DJ gig in 1982.  Gone.

The buyer said that his son was fascinated with vinyl.  Enjoy the music, my brother.

Yes, the decision has been made, and I'm kinda relieved.  Some will be shocked, and some not-at-all surprised.  Others will be deeply hurt.  I'm sorry--I can't continue living in this sad, angry, defeated state just to spare them a bit of grief.  I'm miserable.  It's time for me to go.

tears...

The downward spiral

Hello,

I have about six weeks left to live.  No, not terminally ill.  Just terminally depressed.

I've reached middle age.  Always tired.  Health and eyesight are failing.  Body is beginning to fall apart.  Those aren't the real problems, tho.

I'm socially inept.  My social intelligence is close to zero.  The last female I spent time with told me that "I don't socialize well," and that my communication is "primitive."   I'm not anti-social--I just never seem to know the right words or how to speak them in a way that creates trust and friendship, especially when speaking with a woman.  Some guys do this with such ease--I have trouble doing it at all.  I'm a socially retarded member of a highly social species.  This really, really gets me down.


I recite the "Serenity Prayer" every night.  Wisdom, yes.  Serenity...no.  Courage?  Yes, I've been granted the courage to make a change, a BIG change.  Six weeks.

More later.