I’ve long noticed that the higher my stress level climbs, the less I’m able to write . NaBloPoMo + stress level the highest it has been in awhile = the perfect storm of really boring posts. Not well thought out, typically written half-asleep after the boys are in bed, embarrassing. My right brain just clenches up. It is mental constipation: everything’s there but it’s all stopped up, and nothing is moving without extreme effort and weeping.
Charming analogy, yes. Feel free to use it with your inner 12 year old boy.
In more “inner 12 year old boy” references…what in freaking holy hell is this all about:
I got this Pedialyte ad in the mail the other day and just kept staring at it in amazed horror. Horrified amazement. Because I just love seeing leaking stomachs come through my mailbox.
Or a leaking diaper.
I have a leaking dog to deal with right now, and I don’t think Pedialyte is going to help her much. An exorcism maybe. Surely there’s a young doggie priest and an old doggie priest somewhere waiting to be called upon to make things right. Or would that be the Doggie A-Team? Doggie Quantum Leap? I lose track. Just as long as two young boys don’t start leaking with her.
I think things may be moving again. Not as much effort and weeping as I had anticipated. I feel the funny trying to elbow its way back into the forefront, and thank God for that. The alternative has been hell. The only way to get through a stomach churning wave of chaos is through humor, as dark as it may be.
Laugh at the chaos, because the alternative is no alternative.