Ah, to be or not to be, that is the question teeming inside my subconscious mind...or is it unconscious? Evidently and apparently there is some kind of war between these two words! At least, so I read on that oh so helpful website, wikipedia. Wikipedia, coming soon to an Internet near you! I think that wikipedia has written many a shyly sly high school freshman's first term paper, but I could be overreaching with this kind of speculation. At any rate, evidently the weird subconscious is really not a very academic word at all and the word "unconscious" is the preferred word because it has a specific Freudian interpretation. Should be, 'cause that coke-snorting fiend invented it! Ah, me and Sigmund, Daddy issues galore. Perhaps it could have been a match made in heaven, or at least one stretched out on his couch while he took notes and I free-associated while he interrupted me periodically to snort lines off a cracked mirror. Oh, is that your fantasy, too?
Anywho, once I was young, now I am not, and the old mind well, it is still depressed. I have been living (and you thought that this particular blog came streaking in from that fabled afterlife! Admit it, you thought I've been hanging out with that John Edwards guy!) in a house run by a very strange woman whose life is as chaotic as Imelda Marcos' former sock drawer. Admit it, Imelda, you had the shoe thing down, but dropped the ball on the socks!
Anywho, I like living here in the way that some people enjoy root canals or Tom Cruise enjoys being alone. You get my meaning, folks. For awhile renting a room in a complete stranger's house seemed a fun time, but gradually the eerie facade she wore dropped away and I was left with the hallmark of the twenty-first century. e.g., dsyfunction! Lots and lots of it, plus sinks that don't drain, leaking pipes that never get fixed, suicidal boyfriends, snotty sons who never speak to me, dogs that barked so much I finally blew up at her, and of course the little niggling, nasty feeling that I was only loved for my money. Sacrebleu! Could it be? And here I thought, like Kermit the Frog, they loved me just for me. Sigh.
To make a long story short, in this hell state the theme of my life has been this: no fucking housing. The other theme: lots of fucking depression. The third theme: what in hell am I doing with my life? There are little sub themes, themes that only spend the night, and occasionally themes that wake me up early demanding to be exorcised only no exorcist ever seems available, alas and alack! Alack is prettier than alas, but alas is so much more demanding!
So there you have it. I'm really a nut, but in a nice way, the way that a man can't keep his hand out of that little jar of salted peanuts at a bar...what do I mean, exactly? Well, does everything need an explanation, do our rational western minds need to be curried to and fawned over incessantly, people? I thought not! Ah, God bless you.
So, my life's been ticking along. I have no car so walk frequently, and attend an Episcopal church overrun by a lot of elitist types who like to exercise their need for friendly condescension. It's mildly irritating, but human hemmrhoids do exist, folks! Alas and alack (alack, stop scratching that! we'll be there soon!). Just going on with the hemmrhoid theme, really! I write a lot, never date, have a few friends, and continue to struggle with MDD, PTSD, and that one lone space alien who just won't leave me alone. Sigh. It's so hard people, really! Tired of being superwoman. Tired of being a woman. Tired.
That's my story and yes, I am sticking to it! Later, gators.
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