Making the Most of a Relational Entanglement, Photo by BradensEye

Generous things are born from tragedy. An error is merely a point of view. I’m continually seeking ways to turn affliction into affection. Comedy and compassion live at the heart of most matters, should we give those attributes their spotlight instead. A disastrous relationship births you a better lifestyle. You’ve lost all sense of income and pride, then waltz your way into that dream job and your magic man appears. Suppose there are all kinds of elves plotting prosperous patterns for you. They’re just waiting in the wings for your next misfortune so they may place a new gem in your way. Life is packed with deductive reasonings of this vein, such as it’s feasible that we’re required to flounder enough before we filet the fish to gobble its goodness.

Off Again, On Again

What was always perceived by me as my superiorly impervious Macintosh laptop contracted a Safari virus. Lucky me was being auto-routed to Bing no matter what I wished to Google. The cute geek trying to help me during my Genius Bar appointment simply said: “Woah, that’s rare!” Uh-huh, great. Even my top-notch Apple tech guru could not sort the culprit after an insane day full of screen sharing attempts while lunch and dinner hours were missed. With expert help and patience, we set a new user for me, saved the old one just in case everything failed to port to the new one, and nearly had a meltdown when we couldn’t fit all my items simultaneously on two users due to storage space. We kicked my external drive into a higher gear for shifting items, mainly my prized hobbyist photography collection. Then I began to rebuild my digital life all over again. Only, no time like the present to finally be forced to consciously tackle the trimming and organization of one-hundred thousand plus images and my record-breaking (so said Apple every single time I contacted them for tech support) contacts at nearly ten thousand.

Gathering more intel from tech friends along the way, I became slightly more confident in my tech ‘expertise’. This translated to the fact I could now coach more than my mother or aunt on technology woes with some sincere support. I upped my ante one more level when taking the maximum iCloud 2 terabyte plunge a couple months into the virus rebuild. I figured the go big or go home method of taking on anything techie might suit me. I had no plans to stop taking photos anytime soon, so I might as well arm myself with as much storage capacity as able. What I failed to factor in was whether my massive amount of data would sync seamlessly. Not a chance. Nearly all media types on my laptop and iPhone didn’t match. The number of selfies or videos, panoramas or people with the last name Smith on both devices varied terribly. It was confusing madness. The ensuing months challenged my inner conspiracy theorist. I wondered had something hacked it’s way onto my drive and was silently ticking away like an activated time-bomb plotting for eventual full volcanic-type disruption.

Then, Saint Nick’s visit was coming down the pipeline and I wanted to share my 2018 Ethiopia travels with my family on my sister’s big screen smart TV. I bought an app I trialed that worked flawlessly. Only I became the flaw when I mistakenly flicked off iCloud Drive with my sleight of hand setting up said app to do its business. There, in one swoop, all my thousands of synced items — albeit a jumbled mismatched set of years of my life in pictures and moving images — disappeared in a split second whoosh. I thought my finger catching the inane move to toggle that sweet green button back on my iPhone would save my day. Alas, nada. What had taken iCloud weeks to load the first time began its crawl anew. But soon replacing my tirade of tech complaints arose a most curious phenomenon. Numbers began to make sense! Present date, there’s only one speck of difference between my two gadgets. It’s an anomaly that my laptop lists having a single additional contact listed in my address book, yet I cannot locate which is this exception. The mysticism of disarming iCloud became the very kick in the pants I guess it needed to welcome all of my items near perfectly.

M

The Gold Standard

I had no good reason to second-guess myself. Too many prior instances turned away from my favor. There was no use psyching up for a win this time. It never seemed to matter what angle I took. Playing the nonchalant buddy only landed me more sexual innuendoes laden with heartache should I ever dare get more than a whiff of this guy’s prowess. (And they call women temptresses?!) Laying my directness on the line about the desire for a healthy, committed, monogamous mate that would end in marriage was often an unexpectedly deeper bout of arousal proposals launched at me predominantly over texts. It was like I was created for the sole purpose of the male populations game of Out the Liar. In fantasy-prone disbelief, male after yet another male, in too wide of an age range for me to be proud of any of this banter, tore into probing me well beyond your wildest alien abduction dreams to give over to their deviant ways.

Tales of their wives asleep in bed already, cybersex, threesomes, or offer for live cock videos were mentioned in attempts to break me into caving to whims I know all too well from my past dalliances. I was a poster-child for frivolity without modern technology through my twenties, solidified a ghastly display in my thirties, but it’s taken most of my forties to reroute the train bound for complete derailment lest I continue useless behaviors ongoing. I’ve kept the sails up on this ship, me puffing my own air into barely a breeze during many a doldrum. I think all men I’ve lent my attentions wanted me to give up this boundary of wanting the tight package I know exists somewhere on this planet that feels all too big when one has been searching for true love for half of one’s life. I’d like to line them up to thank them for providing me stark gourmet context for what a real man could be in a relationship with me. Then, having marched myself to Staples for a bulk purchase of those little gold stars grade school teachers use to signify a thumbs-up for performance, I’d happily pass out a few star-filled pages to each man, sweetly suggesting he place those on his penis next time he thinks about me getting in his pants ever again at the rate he’s been going.

Mwill

When Wrongs are Righted

Ponder the time you were stuck in Los Angeles evening rush hour traffic for hours with at least forty-five minutes to go to your final destination, yet needing to pee so badly you careened off the next exit before thoroughly thinking through your options. Driving a few miles out of your way through endless residential neighborhoods with not even a dilapidated Porta-Potty in sight, you flushed feeling drops of pee wanting to come between your legs, through your clothing, and onto your car seat. In an intense panic, you pulled your car beneath a tree in a free street parking spot and prayed your youthful calisthenics would save the day, as you grabbed the discarded drinking cup to hope to catch the flow your galactic Kegels could no longer hold. Yet, cars kept whizzing right by you, which all felt as if they were watching or would call the police. Somehow, a little too wet for the wear now, you managed to move your vehicle down a dark alleyway behind this one residence you’d missed at first frenzy. In silence, between nothing more than tree leaves blowing, you expel the last of your pee crouched as close to the ground as possible outside the rear of your car, praising the night for any Google Earth camera was likely to miss you in this comprising position. Flash forward relieved, you’ve arrived at your friends’ home to find they’re super amenable to you using their washer and dryer immediately.

You’re flooded with the debacle your weight is causing your clothes, the brain fog front that’s moved in permanently, and your attraction meter. Concede those years worth of Planters Cheez Balls and Mountain Dew adding extra padding to your bottom solidified your apprehensive tension for anything remotely related to a gym, until you were stricken with an extreme crush on the trainer who could get your ass in gear. In preparation for working out (spinoff ironies in this), you begin walking every day to remind your muscles what it feels like to be footloose and fancy-free. Circling the same path one day, you witness an elderly man stranded striving to take out his trash bins nearly his size. Always a sucker for an exercise break, you offer to help. ‘Gerry’ is so overjoyed by your generosity, he asks you to cop a squat on the back of his flatbed truck while you both swing your dangling legs, as he regales you with naval stories that make your navel area tighten with so much laughter. While maybe not the optimal body conditioning, you’ve proven to yourself that getting off your duff and back into action has plenty of hidden benefits atop the obvious.

M

I believe in the quirk of a fuckup bonus mainly because life is too dreary without the concept of romancing our kinks. We don’t tend to grow a better self single-handedly divined via birthright. There’s typically a catch or something at stake. What waits on the other side of calamity is bountiful gain. We might have to search it out like a madman’s archeological dig for the first bone to identify that unknown animal species or bear the brunt of humiliation in order to slurp the gravy. No matter, a silver lining can be strewn amongst one’s minor indiscretions and major howlers.

Be self-evident. Own your mortality along with your whimsy. Blaze a trail and be a shattering success of humanity willing to level up, in spite of your goofy or grandiose gaffes.

Maybe our best comes arrive as bonuses from the craziest outcomes.

LOVER of life. Especially people, places, philanthropy and photography.

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