“Fight for her, Jerry! She’s sure as hell fighting for you!”

Camera lenses

I found out a few days ago the Fleetwood Mac concert is now in February.  I narrowly escaped a meltdown over canceled plans.  Instead, I’ve been coping with brain fog, but at least I still get to anticipate the new date gleefully for three months.  Brain fog sucks, but it’s much better than shutting down altogether.  I fought off The New and Improved Depression Monster (TNAIDM) last night.  I’m surprised by how quickly I managed to kick his sorry ass.  I’m trying not to think about it too much (because I’m worried it may have just been a flyby before an epic battle.)

The lingering melancholy is yet another round of recognizing I messed up (socially) again, but I haven’t yet figured out what I did wrong, or with whom.  It’s merely a sense I’ve offended without intent.  The evidence is so tenuous and speculative; I don’t dare accept it as a certainty.  Instead, I’m struggling to refrain from beating myself up over it, while also trying to convince myself refraining from all social situations isn’t an optimal solution.  (I wasn’t kidding when I confessed my inner five-year-old is usually in charge.)

bridge

I’m frustrated because I know social isolation is not only doable, it’s often attractive.  The downside is the fact it limits the depth of happiness.  I’m once again debating constant but lonely contentment in isolation, versus what is allegedly more healthy, positively more joyful, but also filled with lots of pain:  socializing.  I spend much time here; I should probably decorate this Freaking Chamber of Perpetual Deliberation.  Sigh.  Presently, the desire to withdraw emotionally and STFU be silent is overwhelming.  Sharing my thoughts is (evidently) irresistible and eventually devastating.  (All the swears.)

I love that humans are so complicated, with infinite depths within each.  It’s why they fascinate me.  Observing and interacting with them is like a drug to which I’m addicted.  It’s just that I can’t seem to master communicating.  It’s as if there’s an intricate dance I must perform to gain access, but I can’t hear the music.  I can almost hear the universe belly-laughing at me, though.  Chase that carrot, bitch!  I suppose it is a bit funny from a particular perspective.  I may suck at talking to people, but perhaps I’m like Wanda Sykes to the aliens watching us for entertainment.

Take Me Please t-shirt by Darruda

That’s the shirt I’m wearing right now, (expressing my usual sentiments toward aliens.)  I’m going to design one that says; I Might Be a Famous Comedian on Kepler-186f, then order it and wear it.  Yep.  I’m that weird, don’t you know.  😂  (And this is after decades of trying desperately to fit in.)  Fortunately, the older I get, the less I bother stressing over silly shit like clothes.  Clean and comfortable are the only criteria I aim for, these days.  I still get a good chuckle whenever I remember all the time I wasted worrying about what others think of what I’m wearing.  If you don’t like it, don’t wear my clothes.  😂 💜✌🏽