I feel great. I feel like I had a lobotomy.
Anger really is an unsustainable operating system. I’m lighter now, inside and out, and I feel good. It sounds simple, but it is not. I’m wiping the slate clean. I’m rebooting the 40 year-old hard drive. Guess what? It’s amnesty day at the Big Ring Circus. I forgive everyone, even those who don’t want it. I even forgive that jackass in California. It’s over. Forget it. Sorry I just called you a jackass.
While I’m at it, I would like to take it a step further and apologize to you all. If my words have ever been unfair, or cut too close to home, I’m sorry. If I was a bad listener, forgive me. I am not in charge of the mid-term elections, the weather, the war in Afghanistan, or anything else at all. It’s just me and my thoughts in here, in this head, so I’m learning to keep myself better company on the cold, dark nights when the bad thoughts come calling. Come in bad thoughts. Sit down. Let me get you a nice hot mug of tea. Do what you need to do. I will wait patiently until you tire of me. Godspeed on your travels. Goodbye.
LOL. Evertime I read the word anger/angry in your rantings, it just comes off as “butter”.
It’s probably better that way. And jackasses are my spirit animal.
That’s how they make butter. Start with milk, add angry. 21 blocks of butter now soaking into the streets of Tallahassee, no longer mine.
I think my spirit animal is the Opossum.
And no, you are not the jackass of whom I speak.
Is it Byron?
No, it is not Byron. Or Nicolas. It’s an ancient reference.
And the old man listens with a slight smile, nods knowingly and is pleased. It is well with Juancho and the force is stronger by one.
Your yoga teacher must be a hell of a lot better than mine was.
I’ll enjoy your current phase for a season, perversely hopeful it won’t endure. Some enter lasting contentment in their 40s, but I pray for my own sake as blog consumer this isn’t your fate. I always remember Darrell Porter, a major leaguer of the 70s, who hit .300-plus one year, went into alcohol rehab in the offseason, then hit in the .240s the next season — no doubt as a finer person, which I hope insulated him from the fans’ catcalls and ensuing pay cut.
Sorry I didn’t recognize you on the street recently. Sometimes even a neighbor appears out of context.