It’s the second to the last day of 2017 and my mania is in high gear. No need to worry… I’m sure almost everyone is pretty much safe, figuratively speaking metaphorically of course. Yes. I’m [sic].
I imagine a lot of depressed people have more trouble than usual during the holidays. Too much sugar, too much stress, too many people enjoying all our bad habits in ways we just can’t. Thanksgiving got me wound so tight… I’m still not ready to talk about it. And all I want to do to get out of this paragraph is invoke some surfing metaphor about how even the best surfers can ride those big wave for only so long… but the earth & the wind & the moon & gravity always take over… sometimes the wave fizzles out and everything is chill. Sometimes the wave lets us come shooting out – feeling strong and empowered. And sometimes the wave closed on top of us and jams our faces into the jagged coral below, and it rips out one of our eyes.
So, yeah… now you know why I’m wearing this eye-patch.
I’ve had a head-cold all week. This is day 5. Today is the first day this week when the thought of writing didn’t make me want to invoke Sylvia, and Papa, and Curt, and go full-on never write again. Almost – though not quite. Then, this morning… renewed hope.
No… wait, that’s not it. Not renewed hope. I meant, renewed narcissistic survival instinct.
When I’m riding that monster wave & hangin’ ten, I like to find all the near-by writer groups and facebook pages and “join” and express my excitement to be involved. This inevitably leads to the what-the-fuck-was-I-thinking eyeball-popping coral metaphor. And nothing against them (the local-ish writing groups, not the coral metaphors). More power to ’em. But my I-don’t-fit-in-anywhere-ism is apparently so strong it’s causing a New Year’s Day super-moon. Yes. The upcoming super-moon is because of my anxiety. That’s how bad it is right now. Super moon.
There’s one group where its members aspire to write at least 250 words a day… with a goal of writing at least a little bit every day – something I want to do. So, ya know, motivation an’ shit. (I try. I really try.) So now… notifications are popping up for this group, and people are posting about their word count for the day. And… I guess it’s hard for a lot for people to write just 250 words… which I totally get, but, I’m like… it’s hard for me to just write 250 words. And then I was like, “Oh really? How long has it been since you wrote shit? Last time I checked, you posted on the Litterbox about nine lives ago…”
Because, y’know… I have a head-cold. Which should be pretty obvious by now.
And it’s the second-to-the-last day of 2017 and I want to do that thing where I get all smarmy about the randomly-assigned date of our relative human concept of time, but I’m almost too depressed to even be sarcastic. The news, man… the fucking news has me a heartbeat away from crying… every moment of every day. I feel like trying to have a happy though makes me the worst human in the entire world. The Rohingya Refugees, the fires, the cold, the animals… I just can’t. My heart… my heart can’t take it all.
And then I got another idea for a sitcom. (That’s right, I aim high. In that, I’m high when I set my goals, and they seem awesome.) So… remember that time when you thought you almost died? (This is the premise of the show… because there seem to be a lot of us – as YouTube alone can verify – who seem to be able to say we’ve had some near-death experiences, or can recall something we had no business doing and feel lucky to be alive for having survived it.) Well… what if you did die. And this is Hell. And our daily lives are re-imagined from the viewpoint of one person finding out this is actually eternal damnation, and slowly everyone else begins to realize it. Like a They Live, only the glasses make you see Hell-stuff…. melting walls and fire & brimstone stuff… and you see who Satan really is… but it’s a season finale cliffhanger… think Soap meets 3rd Rock meets Desus & Mero meets X-Files (the funny episodes) meets Angel meets Blackish meets Full Frontal… something like that.
I should lay off the coffee. Also, all my cold medicine is expired. And maybe too much TV might be a real thing. (Think Dream On meets Scrooged.)
In my perception of reality, I have a whole lot of reasons to look forward to 2018, and I even have a few reasons why it’s okay to feel good about that… despite the world’s, and my own, daily struggles and loss. Oh, the situational comedy. (Think M*A*S*H meets After M*A*S*H.)
This wasn’t what I started out to write. But, I’ll save that for another post. This one is already up to 842 words. That’s probably enough for now.