Sometimes only Futurama quotes can truly capture the madness that circulates in my brain. It’s late (well, not really late, but that word is redefined the further one proceeds into her 30s). I’m nowhere near tired. My brain is twitching from all the anti-skin mayhem drugs it’s been fed. The kitteh sleeps beside me, content to taunt me with all her cute. I blew the dust off this thing because I realized that my creative outlets have dried up. I haven’t played my piano in well over a year, there’s nothing to sing about, and my waistline is doing a convincing job of keeping the oven mitts at bay. So yes, writing it is.
So this is Southern California. Every now and then it hits me that the vast majority of my loved one are thousands of miles away. I think the drugs are doing a pretty good job of making that notion abstract. I’ve been thinking about kicking the headpill haze for a while. Seems like the buffer provided by SSRIs are more of an oilstreak across the glasses of my emotions. Feigned ignorance may be bliss, but if one can’t even appreciate bliss, what’s the good in it? Garden State. Yes. I’ve been way too happy with white walls.
The crudely animated space lobster on the TV makes far more sense to me than Fareed Zakariah. Is that wrong? I’m in my early thirties and married and all that. Shouldn’t I be concerned with worldly goings-on? Nah. I’ll leave the politics to my non-citizen husband. There’s an alcoholic robot to appease me.
So yeah, nothing profound today. Just reminding myself what it’s like to write. I’m sure the inanities of life will inspire me soon enough. Until then, it’s your resident whackaloon, signing off.