I’m falling apart tonight. And right after I’d started congratuating myself for emerging from a particularly badass two-year depression.
But I’m exceedingly sensitive today; I suspected the CD player in my car of plotting against me on the way home. Or, rather, it seemed intolerable that it would refuse to play the same CD so many times in a row, then think better of it until I cleaned the stereo out. One more time. It only gives me a few tracks before it spits the CD out. Again. “How many times in one day,” I asked it, “am I supposed to run that wretched little program that plays Muzak while it pretends to get the dust off of the lens so I can listen to my Pennywise, Seals & Croft, and Queen?”
I know my estrogen is dropping, which—combined with financial stress and sleep deprivation—is making me a bit volatile.
This, in turn, led to some concern that I might become my crazy mother. But I have thought it through, and malfunctioning CD players are not at all the sort of thing that set my mother off: she only goes insane when one throws something away, or otherwise behaves in what she perceives to be a wasteful fashion. You know: taking something to the dry cleaner that conceivably could have been washed by hand.
Clearly—and this makes sense if the estrogen stockpiles took a sudden dip—I am turning into my crazy father. He is the one who overreacts to sound irregularities, arbitrary inconsistencies in the universe, and mechanical malfunctions. At my age, he had the most astonishing tantrums over such matters.
And I can forgive him for making me insane via genetics, because he has promised to send me some belladonna alkaloids for these cramps that codeine will no longer even touch.
And I think we all know where that will lead me*:
Where on earth did Roger Taylor get that lovely top? I’ll bet I’d look even better in it than he does.
The pain is getting worse, but I’ll take pain over madness any day of the week—particularly on Wednesday.
* This one is tough, and I don’t expect anyone other than Darrell to figure it out. Unless some olives drop by or something.
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It’s selfish of you to be depressed. Some of your insignificant readers, hearing of it, may feel grief that a really smart person could actually be sad, and sit speechlessly in front of their computer screens.