No Pants and Ready to Fight

And now, for your viewing enjoyment, newly-recovered, never-before-seen Fotoz of Little Blue:

See, I WAS raised by hippies. In case you had any doubts. 1974.

I’m told I hated pants.

Have I changed at ALL?  And is that the SAME ANTELOPE-THING?

And now, on with the show.

I don’t embarrass easily, but I’m embarrassed. And I’m bare-assed. Which doesn’t really embarrass me, as anyone who’s walked into my house unannounced can attest to. I’m bare-assed because I had a couple of pals over tonight and it was hot, and they were hot, so I turned off the air conditioning. I’m embarrassed because I’ve spent all of my adult life, probably most of my life, in an almost constant state of “something’s wrong”. “Why?”, you ask, because you care. Some of it is chemical, or hormonal, something not exactly psychological in origin – the anxiety, or panic disorder, or whatever it is that makes me feel more terrified of things than I should be, and that completely takes me over, sometimes to the point where I’m debilitated from the fear. Some of my weirdness is purely in the ole’ noggin. Things just bother me too much. I become consumed by anything unpleasant that happens in my life. I’ve always wanted to be the sort of person who just shrugs off an aching back and loneliness and stomach shrapnel. But I’ve never been able to pull it off. Or maybe, somewhere inside me written in a foreign language I can’t quite remember how to read, I don’t want to lose the badness. To act in a healthy way would mean that I’d eventually learn to be happy. Can’t have that. It’s too strange. It’s change, and in the primitive swamp at the very bottom of my world, change is dangerous. When you leave home, you get eaten by things you don’t recognize as predators. You lose everything you’ve ever known and loved, and then you get punched in the face by a big guy who doesn’t like the way you’re eating your macaroni, and then it gets worse before it gets better. Happy = Different = Change = Danger. Fucking complicated, if you ask me. Maybe it’ll seem less complicated after a good month’s sleep.

This time I’m attacking the anxiety problem head-on, and not stopping until I’m better. I don’t even know what “better” looks like. I think I experienced it briefly a while back, but the memory of it has been buried under two years of worrying about a treasured, beloved daughter with a heart defect. I want the goodness back. I know you want it for me. Root for me, ok? I think I’m worth the effort or I’d have quit this heavy world a long time ago.

And now, the Haiku of the Day:

I’m really fucked up
seriously fucking fucked
fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck


p.p.s.: I always wanted to be the quiet, mysterious type. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!


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