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I prefer to sleep on my back, and I have been sleeping on my back since high school at least. But I try not to sleep on my back anymore at all, ever.

Part of the reason is that I snore, loudly. And sleeping on your back makes you more prone to snoring. I have purchased a couple retainer like mouth devices that help. I have these plastic tubes that you insert into your nose (that don’t work at all). I try not to drink alcohol before bed, all in an effort to reduce my snoring for the sake of everyone in my household.

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BlogParenting

I wrote this in the middle of July. I never really finished it, which is why I never published it, but I suppose now is an appropriate time. The top half of this is old, the bottom is new, you’ll get it.

As I write this, my wife is 38 weeks pregnant. This is the furthest along she has ever been, since my daughter was born during the 37th week of pregnancy.

The last time around I was pretty much a trainwreck. And we were not prepared at all. Thankfully it happened on a weekend, and just blocks from my house, so it was easy to roll with the punches. But the major difference is that this time around I feel much better. I’m nothing but excited for this baby. I know what it takes to raise an infant. I remember how frustrating and difficult it was but I know I can handle it better now. I am worried about how my current daughter will be, especially since right now we are not good friends. But it will be what it will be. I’m much more laid back this time around.

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In 1996 an album was released that completely redirected the course of my life.

Okay, maybe that is overselling it a bit. But I was 11 years old and starting to really put a lot of my interest into music. Greenday’s Dookie turned me onto masturbation (or at least gave me a name for something I was starting to practice regularly), RATM had me quoting “rally round your family with a pocket full of shells” as an anthem, and the news of Kurt Cobain’s death was the most impactful news story of my life so far.

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Blog

Imagine that your life is like the light coming out of a projector.

Sometimes the bulbs are bright or dim, some seem to last forever while other’s lives seem to be cut short early. Some just hum away practically unnoticed, while others are in constant need of attention. The light shines forward, much like our progression through time. And while the light can illuminate many objects, it isn’t really all that interesting to look at.

But, of course, we don’t buy projectors for their ambient light.

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Bipolar ThoughtsBlog

‘It will always been right in the end’

It is something we hear all the time; something we say without thinking. It is meant to be supportive, but is actually terrifying.

It obviously holds little merit. The only definition of the phrase that could offer it meaning would be to say that God makes sure it always ends the way it is supposed to. But even if you were a strict adherent to fate and eschewed all of the tenants of free will, you could ask yourself if it ended well for murder victims, just as an example.

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Bipolar ThoughtsBlog

I first published to this blog, well actually it was a different website (wearewhatwepretendtobe.com, which is now defunct) on February 24th, 2015. Not even a week later I moved to my current home and I have posted almost 250 entries, not even including news updates or little tidbits here and there.

I had purchased a computer and started setting up the website and writing essays about a month before I went live. And I only spent about two weeks before that deciding if I should do it.

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My mother’s love life was an interesting affair. It always had a strong pull on me, always made me very upset, and led to most, if not all, of the problems in our relationship. The way she treated relationships probably had a profound effect on how I would later go about attaining and maintaining relationships. My fear of hurting people the way my mother hurt me led me to stick in toxic relationships longer than I needed to, and led me to never hop into a casual or short term engagement.

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When I reached a certain age, probably around 13, I started falling in love with the idea of hating my mom.

It wasn’t a normal adolescent angst-ridden rebellion against a parent. She was hardly in my life at that point, she let me do whatever, say whatever, act however I wanted (she didn’t know how to ‘win’ the divorce, so she went ‘cool mom’ route), so there wasn’t much to rebel against.

She hurt me, and my sister, a lot. She made poor decisions, seemingly impossibly bad decisions. She was manipulative and could be a monster at times. To put it plainly, I wanted her to feel as bad as she had made me feel.

I wanted to make her pay.

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