#467: YOU CAN CALL ME EEYORE

For certain reasons, I am feeling myopic and slow, but I won't get into those reasons here, because in a home where one of us has left his job, the other of us has to make every effort to keep her own. Suffice it to say that my stress levels have been high and that the compensation for this stress has actually moved into the negatives, and the idea of taking a sojourn as a buddhist nun sounds really good right now.

(I'm not knocking the Buddhist nuns, no. I'm just thinking that if I were to become a Buddhist nun, I probably wouldn't have someone standing over me while I swept demanding reasons for my having left that grain of rice on the floor, and that, in fact, I probably wouldn't even understand the language, so it wouldn't matter sweet fuck all what anyone said to me. That's it. I'm going to learn Urdu and forget all my English. I wondered once about what I would do if I were to follow this elusive "bliss". Now I know).

A couple of days ago, I decided to look for the funny, because if I look for the funny I usually find it, but no dice. I have watched the cat, Oskar, earnestly awaiting his high jinx. Nothing. I have watched him eat his own puke twice, though. If there's another feat worth documenting, I don't know what it is.

I have looked to my friends to provide the funny, but that is apparently the last place I should look these days. They are all busy new mothers or separating from their spouses or being dumped by emotionally damaged fools or having to cancel all their high-fallutin' plans for the coming year due to financial issues or looking for employment or feeling depressed. I love them all, I really do, but they are not my beacons to well-being lately.

The Fiery One is usually rife with the funny, but his job ended yesterday and I'm usually too numb with denial lately to remember to laugh. There have been a couple of belly-laughing episodes, but the myopia and the slowness have fuzzed them out of my memory.

When I put my finger on my pulse of creativity again, I'll be back.

Not that I'm leaving. That sounded like I might be taking a hiatus. I'm not.

I meant that to sound somewhat like this, only without the breathiness of too many commas:
When I am no longer lapsing into states of navel-gazing, melancholic semi-catatonia, which will likely be within the next few days, because my emotional states are fickle and short-lived, I will be back.

If my emotions had to be a thing that reflected their fixity, they would be fruit flies.