Yes, life is a big fat steaming turd. There is no other way to describe it than this. Currently I live with the Widow of Paranoid Proportions in a semi-haunted Victorian home in a room with a ghastly orange shag rug, the kind last seen in 1973. It is not easy to be me, my kiddies, yet your lament, the soulful one you emit from the depths of that cavernous realm (more void than vid, cupid than cubed), is no different. I don't know what "vid" means either, but hey, it's all just them words, kiddies!
Yes, life is a bitch. I am incredibly anxious because my ancient computer crashed, leaving me without a book to work on. My book is the only thing that gives me purpose, a sense of peace, and the illusion that there is more to life than twisted families, ugly carpets, absolutely no money, and other sad tales best told by an Irishman holding a beer in a pub. Ah yes, where I would like to be! In addition my sister-in-law is possibly the world's coldest and meanest woman -- this specimen of humanity has acted like I am a big fat steaming turd since first we met. I am going to see her on Saturday evening, woe is me, and will promptly imagine that she is really the Reverend Al Sharpton or, more helpfully, one of the TeleFuckingTubbies. The purple one that bounces gently under marshmallow skies laden with rocking horses. You know the one I mean! Irishmen very deep into their cups have sung THAT one, too.
So writing this blog is abating some of my anxiety, although not much. There is nothing good about my life lately. I mean, nada and niente. I am living in a town I can't stand, with a woman who is almost as scary as my parental units, and I have absolutely no money to do absolutely anything whatsoever. To say it sucks is an understatement. It would all be fine (whine whine whine) if I could just write my bloody BOOK, because without that I will, very slowly, yet with complete inward clarity, go completely off my rocker. I mean, nuts and all that. INSANE. You know, BANANAS. How strange that we equate that mental state with fruit, but nothing in life makes any sense if you think about it (and please, for the love of God, do not).
The one good thing is that I have cable TV. Yes, Cable TV! It soothes me so. Also in my house is a strange little butt-kissing Narc of a guy who kisses up to the Landlady from Hell and who last night made a very weird comment to me about my chosen nocturnal hours (i.e., when I finally lay me down to sleep). I was like, hmm...and this is your business because? Yes, I'm hypersensitive, but little Mr. Buttkisser probably thinks that he's doing The Landlady a favor by keeping tabs on me. Paranoid Me, yes! It all goes round in a tidy circle, interlaced with shiny little knives.
Speaking of knives, I accidentally BENT one of the landlady's, who keeps tabs on HER cutlery like the crown jewels of London are embedded in there somewhere. I promptly had an anxiety fit that screamed for Xanax. I do not believe in antidpressants for myself after two scary attempts to try them out, both of which made me feel like I was wading through The Sea of Cotton Wool. Andrew Solomon's interesting and seemingly well-researched book The Noonday Demon depressed me, however, because Solomon is a proponent of drugs. In fact, some of the case studies in his book took so many drugs I wondered if that's what God had in mind. I mean, should human beings be walking medicine chests? Is that really safe? But hey, that's just me, folks.
I must go. This keyboard hurts my fingers, and attempts to write in the library with some disks failed miserably. We pray, we look at our options, we hope for better times. For us all here on Planet Happy.
Yes, let's keep laughing in our sea of miseries. For those of us in 'em. And whatever you do, stay away from poems like Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold. That guy was more depressed than anyone.
God bless, and much redress.
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