I'm Worried Myself
Not a bad day, the head throbbing no more than it's throbbed in the past, the energy good, the day flying, what with the cleanup needed after the Blaster worm entered our neighborhood. I cannot say I was particularly conscious, more an automaton who juggled his tasks in an adequate manner and, now that the day is done, I'm sitting at this computer on auto pilot. Do you write swell and well on auto pilot? Maybe. Hard to say. The drums, you know, the drums in the distance; over time they make you crazy.
Yes, yes. The scenery is passing much too quickly, the blood, you understand, it settles in a puddle at the back of your head. Hard to think, your brain in a puddle. Hard to make sense of all that is happening. They had the usual Wednesday after work blues concert down the way and I walked right on by, camera in backpack; I didn't even take it out during lunch, a total break in my pattern, skip the blues, time to get home and well what, write here? Well, yes. That's what I do. I go home, pet Emmy (meow!), take my pills, watch the McNeil News Hour and pour a drink very much like the one that is sitting on the desk beside me. I will have another one pretty quick and that will be it for the evening. And I will shut up pretty soon, but I don't. Won't. Can't. Something like that.
Settle down. Sit for a while. Clear your head. Don't write anything too stupid. You've few enough readers as it is.
Yes, yes. Emmy is on my lap. MSW has suggested web sites for the cat who throws up her dinner. And her lunch. And her breakfast. I will visit these later. I will visit the pet stores recommended and buy various flavors of cat food. Get Ms. Emmy on the path. You do want to get on the path, do you not Ms. Emmy?
Would that life were so simple, troubles no more than spots on a rug, solved by a ladle and a better brand of cat food, all life's difficulties resolved over dinner.
Now I'm worried.
I'm worried myself.