GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #296: THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

I have to say that I'm shocked by how successful my gofundme has been. One day, and I'm already over my goal. I have so many thanks to give all who pitched in and helped out. I should be able to cover my meds for a while, which should buy me the time to get a job with medical insurance. I'm so grateful to you all. Thank you so much! When I lost my insurance, I considered creating a gofundme, but fear held me back. Who would contribute? I didn't think it would get far beyond maybe twenty bucks. You all surprised the hell out of me. Again, thank you!


I have to say, though, I don't think it would have been possible without the help of one person.


I've been a fan of Joe Hill's since Heart-Shaped Box came out. I followed his career through books and comic books. I met him once at Andersons in Naperville. I've kept up with NOS4A2 on AMC and Locke & Key on Netflix and his Creepshow episode, etc. I'm so glad that this explosion of attention he is getting is happening. Because not only is he an amazing author, he's also a good person.


All I meant to do was comment on Twitter on how much I enjoyed Locke & Key. It got his attention, and he must have seen my post about running out of Paxil. He said if I put together a gofundme, he'd contribute. That gave me the courage I needed to create the page. Not only did he do that, but he retweeted it to everyone who followed him, and a lot of them responded very positively. A lot of them even contributed and put me over my goal.


See? The internet isn't always the cesspool people say it is. Maybe tonight this shouldn't be called Goodnight, Fuckers. Because a lot of you--maybe even most of you reading this--are definitely not Fuckers. You are good people.


Thank you so much, Joe Hill, for everything.

A SPECIAL THANK YOU TO YOU ALL

I wanted to take the time to thank you all for your kindness and your support and friendship and love. March was a pretty rough month for me. I've been sick almost the entire time with an illness that sent me to the doctor many times and the ER three times. It started off as the flu and turned into pneumonia and settled in as a stomach virus that mimicked pancreatitis so closely that I didn't believe it when the tests came back and said my organs were all fine. There were entire days I spent puking my guts out and then dry-heaving when I didn't have anything else to offer the toilet. I had a deep pain in my guts, and the constant nausea prevented me from sleeping. It was an absolute nightmare, and I'm 99% certain I can trace it all back to that snot-nosed kid who coughed and sneezed over everything at the Urgent Care facility I went to for that lump in my armpit.


But that's not what I wanted to talk about today. When I was at my lowest, just as I was getting ready to go to the ER a second time, I got a call from my stepmother telling me that my father had just had a heart attack. From what I understand, he didn't know it was a heart attack, and he was feeling odd for a couple of days. They brought him to the ER, found out what happened and instantly went to work on him. I was confident he would pull through. He always does. He was in the air on 9/11, and he's a two-time cancer survivor. This heart attack would probably just be a bump in the road. My brother kept me appraised of the situation, and it seemed like he would get better for a while, and something else would happen, but then he'd get better again.


When my mom passed away, we all knew it was coming. She'd been sick for a long time, and her organs were failing her. She was in hospice, and she was in a coma. We had plenty of time to prepare. Even when the inevitable happened, we all lost it. No matter how prepared you are, you're never prepared enough.


Losing Dad surprised the shit out of all of us. It came out of nowhere. He was a few years shy of his sixties. He was in fairly good shape after several bad medical run-ins. Full head of hair. Strong as an ox. And bam. One minute my brother is telling me they're getting ready to take him out of ICU, and the next he's calling me to tell me that Dad is gone.


It happens just like that.


I cried a long time. Dad wouldn't have wanted that, but I couldn't help it. From what I've experienced with my mom's passing, I know it will go like this: it will hurt less and less everyday, but every once in a while, maybe in intervals of six months or a year, it will come back and hit me hard out of the blue.


There will be no funeral for Dad. He didn't want anything like that. He was a circle-of-life kind of guy. So am I. I always wondered where I got that from. When I go, I want a green burial. Put me back into nature. Recycle me. Dad donated his body to science so people could pop his hood and check out what happened to him, so they'll know what to do for the next person this happens to. That's the kind of guy he was.


There will be a celebration of Dad's life, though. One last get-together, where everyone can raise a pint to his memory. I wish I could be there and see my family, but Dad wouldn't have wanted me to go to all the trouble. He didn't want to make life difficult for anyone. He was a man of convenience, which is probably why he made such a good salesman. This is my way of sending him off.


Which finally brings me to that "thank you" I promised in the title of this thing. I don't know how it happened, but I've somehow surrounded myself with the most caring, loving, wonderful people anyone could hope to have in their lives. So many of you rushed to offer help, assistance, someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on--you name it, you all offered. Thank you. I'm grateful to have you all in my life, and I can't thank you enough. I love you all.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #165: AN EMOTIONAL MOMENT REVISITED

I'm going to post something about a spoiler for the new Star Wars movie. I know it's still pretty new, and people are still pretty sensitive, so if you're concerned about The Force Awakens spoilers, turn back now.


I don't fully remember this, but I do have some vague recollection. I'm told that the first time I saw The Empire Strikes Back, I did something. I'd watched the original episode back when it was just known as Star Wars many times. I had it on a Beta tape with scenes that were cut from the theatrical movie. I watched it obsessively.


But the first time I saw The Empire Strikes Back? I freaked out. You remember the scene. Luke and Vader have been fighting for a good deal of the climax, and finally, near the end, Vader savagely severs Luke's lightsaber hand.


I'm told that when I saw this scene for the first time, I screamed. I jumped up and ran into my mother's arms, weeping my eyes out and kissing her face, begging her to let it not be true. It horrified me beyond all belief. It's the second piece of fiction to have ever hurt me. (The first being the end of Night of the Living Dead. But that's a story for another day.)


Fast forward a few decades. I'm watching the new Star Wars movie, and there's a scene that makes me feel like I did when I saw Luke's hand get cut off.


You know the scene. But don't get me wrong: it's not the moment when Kylo Ren's lightsaber goes through Han Solo's chest. No.


It's seconds later, when Han Solo caresses his son's face before he falls off the OSHA-disapproved bridge. That one moment, his hand on his son's face, that I felt the very same as when I was a kid watching Luke's hand fly off into oblivion. The young-dumb-full-of-cum Han Solo we met in episode 4 would never have done that. The aged, knowledgeable Han Solo he became? It hurts my heart just thinking about it.


If my mother was still alive, I probably wouldn't have done the same thing. I would have gone to her and told her about it, though. I miss her. We had a lot of problems, but goddammit. I miss her.


Fuck. For the most part, I've healed from my mother's death. Every once in a while, though, it sneaks up on me, and it cripples me. I have tears in my eyes right now. It hurts after all these years. I cry uncontrollably. I can't help it.


I miss you, Mom. Thank you for teaching me that endings don't have to be happy with Night of the Living Dead. And thank you for showing me that heroes struggle. They don't always make it through in one piece. I wouldn't be the writer I am today without you.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #20: THANK YOU, ONE AND ALL

If you had told me when I was in junior high that one day, I'd have so many friends to thank for wishing me a happy birthday, I wouldn't have known whether to laugh or to cry. The correct answer is probably to cry, because if you'll excuse the moment of emotion, I really am overwhelmed by you all. Thank you very much for the birthday wishes. You've all impacted my life more than I can ever say.


I can't say it enough: thank you, one and all.