Tag: the blues

Bad News Berries

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In the midst of a sour incident and two droppings of bad news out of the blue(s) directly in my hair (so hard to get out!), I have found myself seeking escapism and solace through increasing the level of snark in my writing.

No, you’re totally right, I don’t think this is a very productive way of dealing with things, and I’m not talking about snarkin’ it up here, or you would have noticed by now, by golly. I mean, in other places. Yes, as in the graffiti on the bathroom wall, exactly.

Whereas before I might have tagged “Twirly whirly spangle jangle” right across the mirror, now it’s all “Wut the fuzz” and “Gimme a brick. No, seriously, GIMME ONE” right on the turl-et seat! Suggestive and rude.

I dare say I’m sympathizing with those renegades who stalk the internet discussion threads. No! Never!

But maybe?

Meanwhile, thoughts of brunch abide. Also, the aftertaste of a banana is like you just chewed a stick of anti-gum.

Also, the apocalpyse! This article FTW. I love the expression “going rogue.” It sounds so slick.

As a first sign, my computer is demonstrating pre-strokelike symptoms. Words aren’t coming out right; pictures aren’t showing up; and a blue screen is just a moment away.

I Was Looking for Spiritual Peace, and I Found This Plastic Egg

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Insofar as it actually took place, my Sunday eggs-cursion worked out. With the help of a friendly and talented hand, I sharpie-decorated and filled some brightly colored plastic eggs with candy and weird notes (i.e., “You are a wonderful friend. Even Oprah knows it.”) I then left them around DC willy-nilly…though it would be accurate to say I only covered a 3-block perimeter. I’m not sure if anyone actually picked up and opened any of these eggs. But that is my earnest hope. And the entire egg-cercise was worthwhile in the creative regard. No, unfortunately, I didn’t take any photos of the proceedings. It takes two hands to randomly hide eggs in plants and around statues while evading tourists’ lollygagging and cops’ eyes alike.


Easter Basketcase Bunny

Also, I can’t stop taking personality tests (INFJ) and reading self-help articles (Martha Beck-ommendations mostly). Someone tell me something I don’t know already! I’ve got mindfulness downpat. Well, I mean now I know what it is. Now I have to figure out how to master it. I’ll call you when I’ve beaten my highest Zen score, which is, in itself, a paradox.

I don’t need any guff about Oprah.com neither because desperate times call for desperate, teary Google searches. Anyway, I probably blasphemed enough just by expressing an O-pinion about her highness. That’s what Oprah calls them, O-pinions.

Meanwhile in the relationships arena, this is comforting non-news.

Rubber Ducking, You’re the One

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so tuesday night and yesterday, i was down-and-out at a 24/7 blues brothers concert (as sisqo would croon, “She was in the dumps like a truck truck truck/Sighs like what what what/Baby move your butt butt butt/Uh.” i tried all the usual methods of self-medicating: lots of imaginary backrubs, feeling over-sorry for myself, baby bunny photos, putting the ‘tude in solitude, emotherapy, and staring through my computer screen instead of at it, lost to the world.

as soon as i started to feel a little better, something would inevitably spiral me back into navel hazing (like navel gazing but with a meaner brain).

i did happen across (verb phrase that deserves more usage) an email my friend nadia sent me a few days ago. it’s about a creative problem-solving tool known as rubber ducking. it employs a method wherein you have someone listen to a problem of yours, and instead of answering or advising you in anyway, they just sit and nod and listen like a rubber duck until the answer comes to you independent of them.


more rubber ducks = more understanding? uh huh uh huh uh huh
photo courtesy of Flickr and Gaetan Lee

the idea was intriguing to me. i tried it a little bit in that i talked to a coupla different people, and did most of the talking for once…it wasn’t quite rubber ducking because i received some feedback, but the act of talking a lot and connecting with others but also just hearing myself with someone else present did induce some of my own discoveries. and i woke up today feeling rejuvenated. so you heard it here last. talking to people helps! i’m always quick on the important revelations.

this captures my newly content state (thank you justin for the photo):

More info on Pancake Rabbit here.

it’s amazing how people will generously offer up solidarity charity if you let them know you’re feeling alone. and it always helps most when you feel like it will help least. for more cliched and unexciting discoveries, tune in about one to three times a month.

in fake news, another victory for the onion.

Straight Up Blues

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since i have a blog upon which to release emotions, i will be sad on this post. and happy in person. call it a dualistic personality, moodswings, multiple personalities, bipolarosity, or general basketcaseishness.

in any case, sad sad sad sad sad.

surrounding me, encompassing me, swallowing me. SADda saddda saddddddda. duhduhduh babuh buh puffpuh. yesterday i spun around my room in circles until i fell over. and i played sad sad music and let sad encompass my very being.
and i totally was a sadass badass. earthquakes. hurricanes. tsunamis. bombing. there was plenty to fuel the ashes.

sad doesn’t burn like flames.

sad smolders like coals.

hole. come here. so that i may hide in you.
blanket. come here. so that i may crawl under you.
cookie. come here. so that i may munch up your warmness.
joke. come here. so that i may laugh through you.
friend. come here. so that i may hug your touch.
skittle. come here. so that i may taste the rainbow.
seriousness. go away. sad. go away. mulling. go away.
boobah. come here. so that i may multiply your nonsense.

empty sad sad empty.

sad sad sad sad sad sad.

what do famous people say about sad?

Wizard of Oz – Hearts will never be practical until they are made
unbreakable.

Nathan Lane – I am not a sad clown. I am not a sad clown.

Arthur Koestler – Nothing is more sad than the death of an illusion.

Cindy Margolis – I’m really sad that as far as the Olympics, women’s boxing
still hasn’t been allowed.

pictures? sad. let’s go.

Here,

Here,

&

Here.

ok. overindulgence of sentiments and CUT. that’s a wrap!

Angst (The Mellow Yellow Remix)

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Saturday nights are funny. They expect things of you. They expect that you cavort and frolic with those similar to your kind, and don’t forget to thank the little people when all is said and done.

Yet, here I am, at home, not feeling particularly blue, but not feeling particularly sunny either. It’s true, I had some sort of pre-apocalyptic-ozone-caffeinated-dehydrated-artificially sweetened hypoglycemic spell before dinner, but that wasn’t the real reason I changed into my pajamas pronto, slurped up my dinner, and searched for instant at-home entertainment gratification. The real reason is I had no other plans.

A failed rendezvous (the usual). A book (finish date TBA). Several messages left on voicemail for several otherwise occupied parties. And it’s back to the party in my head. But most of the guests are too busy picking through the cheese balls to give any attention to the hostess. She wonders why she had this party in the first place.

Ah yes, to help her parents program their VCR/DVD (the inevitable product of the evening). And then there’s the music in the back of her head. Who hired this DJ? He’s depressing and mellow. When all is said and done, strangely at peace knowing the situation is just a situation, and how I feel is merely a side effect to the actual main.

Or is it? One can never tell with such moods. The whole am I looking in the mirror or is the mirror looking at me? passive melancholic drama all over again. I know where I want to be, but wonder if that place exists or if I dreamed it.