Friday, February 2, 2007


Stressed out with the Chinese water torture of waiting for things I have no control over to come to fruition or blow up in my face.

The American Enterprise Institute (think tank sponsored by, guess who, OIL) is offering mucho dinero to any scientist who will refute the claims that human beings are responsible for global warming.
It's like the myth of the golden apple where Hera, Aphrodite, and Athena all tried to bribe Paris into choosing her as the prettiest and most deserving of the apple, rather than getting someone to give them an honest unbiased opinion. Their greed got the better of them, and, of course, Aphrodite got it by promising Paris the prettiest mortal girl alive. We all know what happened then.
The truth doesn't really enter into the picture. But the end result is the same. We messed up our planet. On a positive note, when we're gone, the universe will still be around, untainted. The extent of our viral reach has been blessedly limited to Earth alone.

I have a giant splatter-paint cardboard sea horse. This is the coolest thing I own.

I have a dread problem; it arises in the most innocuous of situations and follows me everywhere I go. Even when everything is peaceful and lovely, I can hear it gurgling at the water fountain. Though I've pretty much proved to myself and everyone around that I'm fairly intelligent, every time I have an appointment or get-together (even with friends!), a party, a reunion, a test, taxes, learning how to drive (this one took me three years to overcome), babysitting, going to work, anything that requires me to interact with people or do something that has even the smallest likelihood of me screwing it up, I am inundated with dread. All the time. I power through, but it's like if you're swimming underwater, and there's no anxiety or fear, and then something passes overhead, and for a moment, however brief, your ability to surface is compromised. It's not just that you feel like you're drowning; it's that your continued safety and happiness rests upon the whim of plastic, wind, and other insidious objects over which you have no power. I almost never feel in control, what with the cackling of fate seeping in and out like ink in my concsiousness. This hovering dread (I think it's a more appropriate word than anxiety because it's not shrill but gray and heavy) that I've had pretty much all my life is the worst thing I own.

Any diagnoses, people?

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In summing up, I wish I had some kind of affirmative message to leave you with. I don't. Would you take two negative messages?
-- Woody Allen