grief counseling
. . . It feels like somebody took my heart, and dropped it into a bucket of boiling tears. And, at the same time, somebody else is hitting my soul in the crotch with a frozen sledgehammer. And then a third guy walks in and starts punching me in the grief bone, and I am crying, and nobody can hear me. Because I am terribly, terribly, terribly alone.
– Michael Scott, Dunder-Mifflin Scranton
I’m not sure that anyone is all that concerned, but the reason that a) I failed to post for a long time (not including the recent week-long-ish spurt) and b) that week-long-ish spurt consisted of absolutely nothing of consequence (and / or interest) is that I am lazy and would rather reload Facebook at five-second intervals and use the intervening time to giggle guiltily at Schadentwitter (i.e., www.fmylife.com) than attempt a meaningful blog post.
Wait. Did I say that? Not what I meant to say. A true explanation, but not the one I was trying to communicate. What I’m trying to say here is that, like Michael Scott, I feel like someone is hitting my soul in the crotch with a frozen sledgehammer. This somewhat dissipates by interest in blogging, and pretty much everything else, actually, except eating, sleeping and re-watching every single episode of Arrested Development.
I’ve never been or wanted to be the whiner, but I find myself at a point in my life where I legitimately have very little positive to say. I’m sure that, like the crew of the intrepid Battlestar Galactica, whose planets were nuked and whose fleet was invaded by robots that looked like humans who attempted to sabotage their fleet and who spent three and a half seasons looking for a mysterious planet called Earth where they could make their home in peace only to find out it was a barren wasteland from whence those cyborgs had come from in the first place, I am indeed making my way toward some kind of happy or at least intellectually satisfying conclusion. (I’m playing “All Along the Watchtower” a lot to make sure this happens.)
Until then, though.
