Two days have passed since I returned to Florida.
Initial general impressions: much of what I see around me appears destitute. Even though everything is attractively priced at a third or less of what it costs in NY, the obvious lack of education in the general population is pronounced.
The local waters — the fabled Treasure Coast’s chief selling point — are unswimmable, due to algae and cynobacteria.
The politicians, as crooked and right wing as ever.
The neighbors, grotesque.
Two in particular continue to try their best to be as obnoxious as possible.
One is around 58, a mid-Westerner by way of Detroit, who shacks up with a sickly mother in her 90s, from whom he expects to soon inherit and lead the good life.
This guy has not worked in decades, has police trouble everywhere he has lived in FLA, is a fat slob, walks around barefoot, talks in a very loud voice, and is shirtless so often that I refer to him as “homo.”
Homo’s boyfriend is a dork I call “Roger.”
Roger’s an old creep from Jersey, whose mission in life is to stand all day in his driveway. He is like the sentinel from hell, who watches everyone’s comings and goings — which is puke juice to anyone like me who is used to the anonymity of Manhattan.
This particular rightwing ponce is 85 years old, and looks like a swishy geriatric derelict. Baggy gardener pants that he never changes. a soiled shapeless shirt, matted wavy dyed hair, and a voice that sounds like that of an effeminate shoe salesman from Newark.
Roger and Homo are two classic Florida Denisovans who love to hang out with each other 24 x 7. I have had to call the police on both, for harassment, because apparently these idle turdballs have a problem with Arab-Americans who own sheppies.
I’d as soon punch their lights out as look at them, but then that is exactly what they want, as it would spice up their pointless lives, and in fact become its highlight, something that gives them something meaty to yatter about for at least the next 5 years, because Rogey of course is the type who lives forever, thanks to the joy of Medicare.
These ratsoids never leave this street — like ever, which is one reason — apart from the evolving Trump situation, that I was thinking of moving to Portugal.
Once again, after only 48 hours in this malebolgian inferno, I am struck at how fucking backward Florida is; how corrupt its politicians; how moronic the people who move here; how it relentlessly attracts the sort of lowlife schemers who will stoop at anything to make a tainted buck.
Consider this John Oliver rant on Florida’s “Rehab” industry.
Kind of gives of you a pretty good idea of what passes for “entrepreneurship” in this state.
So… what else do I have to say today, that’s maybe a little more upbeat?
Well earlier this month, I had a birthday. I am now closing in on 70.
Yesterday, my wife of nearly 30 years informed me that she hated my guts. This was said with a notable degree of conviction, here, in the land of sunlight and good vibes, where an entrenched, dug-in, stubborn MAGA-otry is clinging on to the rantings of a reality TV mafioso wannabe from NY.
That’s her privilege to say so, but then again, I don’t have to buy into anyone’s bucket of shit, and am of course free to consider my options. I do, for example, have a return ticket to Gouna in early October that I can choose to use, and get away from this loser scene crap. All I would have to do is send an email, and a villa with a pool would await me, and I would once again be near my beloved desert mountains.
As I get older, and turn ever closer to 70, I find myself a Lion in Winter, one who minds his own solitary business — contentedly so, I might add — yet keeps an eye on some of the other old lions.
Some become overly introverted, depressed at being pushed away from the pack by younger lions.
Others turn angry at being old, angry at life having passed them by, angry as they sink deeper every day into irrelevance.
Others still brute nonsensically at having married badly — it’s her fault, they convince themselves.
Knowing all this, I’ve opted to go the other way, the FUCK YOU way, at long last, despite everything, especially now that I have a needle, one that I can fill with a viscous liquid called Testosterone Cypionate 200.
This is what I must do now, self-inject 1 cc — oh the horror of it! — in my thigh, every two weeks, in order to combat hypogonadism.
For that, after my latest annual checkup, is the blood test explanation for the pseudo gynecomastia (aka, the dreaded butterball moobs that often develop with bitter old age and overeating to the point of self abuse), and the jewels that turned to raisins, and the afternoon lethargy, not to mention the retreat from all that once meant anything to me… no, despite my deep seated fear of needles, I had to pick up a plastic poignard, fill it with the viscosity, and plunge the sharp nib of it myself into my thigh muscle.
I expected it to hurt like hell.
But wait a minute.
Less than 12 hours later, I felt more like myself again. A sense of well being enveloped my soul. I knew I would no longer have to take shit from anyone, including dependent ingrates. My biceps seems to get harder without any curls, after only a good night’s sleep.
For the first time in a long time, I thought of randy things, and was not disgusted by the Way of All Flesh.
They say it takes 4 to 6 weeks for the Full Nelson of testosterone replacement therapy to take effect.
If this is how I feel after 12 hours, I can’t wait for October to come around.
Maybe now I have a realistic chance of losing weight and achieve muscle tone the normal way, instead of having to basically starve myself, as a sexagenarian without a thyroid gland.
Maybe now I won’t be a doormat any more.
Maybe now I shall claim what is rightfully mine.
Maybe I shall not longer take shit from anyone, no matter who.
Let’s wrap this up.
In 1935, Dupont originated the slogan, Better Living Through Chemistry.
As you find yourself on the road of Life, perhaps, like myself, suddenly pushing 70, and huffing and puffing on your beat-up Trek, as others your age, preternaturally ripped and sleek, whiz by you atop their BMC Timemachines, you suddenly realize: when it comes to staying in the game, everyone is Lance Armstrong, no mater what they say.
You just don’t blog about it, unless it’s satire.