I was standing outside watching the little shake-and-piss dog hump a stuffed animal behind the french doors of the apartment across the way- that little shit will fuck everything, BTW, and can you blame him? It’s what I would do, if I were the size of a rat and I had to deal with his bitchy owner – and I thought:
Wow. I am in a good mood. I really, really feel pretty good. Sure, I have a monster throat infection and the fact that when I blew my nose today some blood came out, causing me to worry excessively for ten seconds or so about nasopharyngeal cancer, but all in all, right at this moment, I am in a good mood.
I might actually feel happy. Really, really happy.
Not content. Content is what you are just before you die, if you’re lucky, or when you’re three years old and you just sit there and stare off into space, making the grownups think you are retarded, or maybe, just maybe, during afterglow in that period of your life when you’ve just figured out what sex is about and the only reason you leave the bedroom is to take a leak.
But nowhere in between. If we were content all the time in between, nobody would strive for anything and nothing would get done.
That was about five minutes ago. I know that this feeling will change, most likely very soon, but right now things are cool.
And I thought I would share that with you.
Not in a snide way, of course – if you’re all depressed and feeling like the shit on the bottom of a taxi cab right now, sucks to be you, because I know what it’s like and that sucks – but just to say that it really, really, really is necessary, in these wondrous postmodern times of ours, to stop and sniff the roses.
Like Ferris Bueller said. He wasn’t just the only role Matthew Broderick performed well in, he was and still is an icon of sorts.
And he’s bloody fucking right.
You Have to Stop and Look Around Every Once in Awhile
Or life will just pass you by.
I know it’s a cliché. Isn’t it funny how everything nice in life is? That’s why people use those terms over and over again. Because they contain hidden truths.
And also because when you’re addled with caffeine, nicotine, and some pills I found for pain relief in the medicine cabinet, you just don’t have time to be fucking creative.
I feel good. So let me.
Driving around buying party favors with my daughter today, there was a news bulletin about how many people now suffer from burnout syndrome. Not only that, there’s another, new syndrome, called bored-out syndrome.
You can imagine what that’s about.
Anyway, so we’re listening to the news blurb, and I’m thinking the whole time, ‘yup, that’s me,’ and then they’re saying how an estimated 500,000 of 8 million Austrians have one or the other, or both syndromes. Then the program’s over, and then Isabel goes:
“What’s wrong? Why are so many people sick?”
“Um..well, they’re not really sick.” Yes they are. “They’re…stressed. They’re working in a job they shouldn’t be working in, maybe the people at their work are mean, or they work too much, or at all hours of the night, and it makes them feel…sad, and depressed, and really they need to change their lives but they can’t because they get caught up in things and then…I don’t know, they get tired and don’t feel like getting out of the bed in the morning and so they don’t have the energy to go and change their lives.”
“Like you,” she said. “Right, daddy? You work so much you can’t find a new job.”
I don’t work that much. Not anymore. But that’s me.
Then I went outside to have a smoke and watched the dog hump Bitchy Lady Across the Way’s pile of new laundry.
It may be that the winds of change seem to be blowing on the horizon for me (another cliché; more about said winds next week), it may be because my son is turning 4 tomorrow, we’re having a big-ass birthday party that includes parents, which means free babysitters, which means I don’t have to do jack except clean up. It may be that thinking about 2012 being possibly the end of the year makes me strangely giddy and excited. It may also be that the common cold suits me.
Whatever. Ain’t nobody gonna rain on my parade today.
Don’t let anybody rain on yours.
Wag the Dad
Like the sappy shit, huh? Creamy, gory, or inside some polyester underwear? Here’s more of it. You’re welcome: