Weeks spent away from home are for me, seemingly, a break-even event, at the best of times.
Trying to sleep in a strange bed; with noises of unknown origin, for all their familiarity.
Unfamiliar tastes and smells… different rhythms to daily sounds.
A month ago, or so, I posted from within the same situation.
But it only took a few hours for me to find my center.. or the center.
Anyway, a center was found, and allowed the week-long event to be endured with a rather larger dollop of grace than is my wont.
This past week was different.
This event was the beginning of a three-week-long stint.
In a state I’m less than fond of; on the best of occasions.
With unseasonably cool weather.
At least there was a whole heapin’ helpin’ of rain, to go accompany that chill.
Sometimes I’m a real load to have around.
Whine, whine, whine, whine, whine…
Why any of you read any of this drivel is beyond my ability to fathom.
I become weary at the sound of my own voice.
I can only guess at the level of your own exhaustion.
And now I grow sick of even the sound of this post.
Maybe I should stop while I’m only behind.
Technically, I suppose, it’s the exhaustion that does it to me.
When I’m tired, it seems like the only thing that will stoke the flames, of any emotion what-so-ever, is a well-oiled sense of rather coarsely-honed outrage.
Which is just ridiculous.
Why must it only be the negative that can raise my dander?
Why can’t I get as worked-up about the sun peeking through the clouds at yesterday’s close, as I get all hot and bothered about screaming kids in public places?
(Because I was driving at the time… (during the sunset; not driving through public places) and the sunset was behind me… and getting all worked-up about it probably would have led to an eventual call to _____… (insert your own auto insurance provider of choice) (I’m going to keep going, and see how many sets of parenthesis I can get into this one paragraph…) (Who’s with me?) (Anyone? Anyone?) (Bueller? Bueller?) (Did you know that yesterday was the 35th anniversary of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off?) (Fry? Fry?) (To the day?) (Seems somebody had too much time on their hands, and did some research into the Cub’s game that the kids played hooky at) (The Sausage King of Chicago) (Devastatingly handsome!) (And that game was deemed to have happened on June 6, 1980) (How about that?))
Well, there’s no time like the present, is there?
Let’s get to work on improving the outlook on life, shall we?
And by ‘we’, I mean ‘me’…
Me – who’s also known as ‘I’, for short…
Hmmm, yes, I think I shall…
How about that picture up there at the top?
Maybe kinda sorta interesting…
Don’t you think?