Knockout

"It's no surprise to me

I am my own worst enemy

'Cause every now and then

I kick the living shit out of me."

                                                                                          -- Lit, "My Own Worst Enemy"

Self portrait 9-16-13

“Struggle is proof that you haven't been conquered, 

that you refuse to surrender, 

that victory is still possible, 

and that you're growing.”

-- Jon Walden

"Those who say life is knocking them down and giving them a tough time 

are usually the first to beat themselves up. Be on your own side.”

--Rasheed Ogunlary

“I will no longer mutilate and destroy myself 

in order to find a secret behind the ruins.”

-- Hermann Hesse

I have good news, and I have bad news.

The good news is, the sleep restructuring program is working, and it is working well.

The bad news is, it would be working even better if I didn't keep getting in my own way.

Why do I do that?

Why do I continue with behaviors and habits that I know have a direct negative effect on my progress?

Why can't I follow a few clear, simple rules?

Why can't I just do all the right stuff?

Why do I repeatedly sabotage my own hard work?

Why do I stand in my own way?

Why do I beat myself up when I fail, instead of picking myself up and trying to do better in the next round?

I've said it before and I'll say it again, I am my own worst enemy.

That's why I have the phrase "Don't let me get me" tattooed on the inside my left arm.

It's me vs. me in a no-holds-barred fight to the death.

Well, it ain't over 'til it's over.

Today is a new day. A new round.

Win, lose or draw, I will keep fighting.

Gunslinger

"All outlaws are photogenic."

-- Tom Robbins, Still Life With Woodpecker

Self portrait 8-19-13

 “Somehow, we'll find it. 

The balance between whom we wish to be 

and whom we need to be. 

But for now, we simply have to be satisfied 

with who we are.”

-- Brandon Sanderson, The Hero of Ages

When I was about 5 years old, I wanted cowboy guns, cowboy boots and a cowboy hat for Christmas.
I got the guns. Two silver, plasticized pearl-handled pistols with a belt and holsters.
I got the hat. Felt, with a little string under the chin.
I got the boots. Black. Shiny.
I even got a shirt with cowboy piping.
I also got a skirt.
A stiff, ugly black skirt with white plastic fringe along the hem.

There are Super-8 home movies of me in this girly get-up, waving my pistols, trying to be a bad-ass cowboy.
In a skirt.
I hated that skirt.
I didn't want a skirt.
I didn't ask for a skirt.
I knew that no self-respecting cowboy would be caught dead in a goddamn skirt.
And I didn't want to hear about girl outlaws.

I didn't want to be Annie Oakley.
I didn't want to be Belle Starr.
I wanted to be Jesse James.
Butch Cassidy.
Billy the Kid.
 
It wasn't the first time my mother forced me to wear a dress. That happened a lot. Usually for pictures or holidays. I always felt so uncomfortable in a dress. So unnatural. So self-conscious. Like an imposter. A fraud.

But, like all the other skirts and dresses of my childhood, I wore the cowgirl skirt to mollify my parents -- for the pictures.
I tried to look happy. Tried to appear grateful.
As soon as Christmas was over, I took that fucker off and I never wore it again.
I got good mileage out of the pistols and the boots, though.

I am all grown up now, and I still love to shoot. Real guns. I'm a pretty good shot, actually. I am proficient with a .22, a sexy as hell .38 revolver (now that's a cowboy gun), a Glock 9 mm, and a .380 semi-automatic.

I have two pistols of my very own and am a registered concealed carrier.
Yup. I can pack heat.

I have my own real Stetson hat. I have my own real cowboy boots. I even made myself a pair of rodeo chaps -- with cowboy fringe.

Not a skirt.
Chaps.
And just to make sure we're clear, I got myself a handlebar mustache and a beard -- for the pictures.