What we talk about when we talk about

My friend told me to write something cheerful, but I’m not very good at it.

Mainly because of thisthis, thisthis, or this.  And this, on a lesser, but still important scale. I’m tired of all this. What’s up with this? Can anyone just do their job right? I just want to be able to rely on someone, for once. (As I turn off my phone and close my office door to shut out the world. Morales hypocrisy.)

I had a random passing thought of Robin Williams on Sunday afternoon. Standing at my mother’s bar in her kitchen, watching my brother pour himself a cup of coffee, listening to my sister and mother make jokes on either side of me. I can’t recall the thought in exact detail. Something about pretending to be a nurturing woman in Mrs. Doubtfire. Something about Hook. Something about his psyche. Something
And then the news yesterday and I got a cold chill all down my spine.

This made me happy: “Adults are basically just children who’ve grown fat, watched their dreams die, and learned to shrink from confrontation.”

I had a conversation with my sister Saturday on a swing set that consisted of: Are you happy? Is our brother happy? Is mom happy? I need everyone to tell me that they’re happy and then I can go on ignoring them. “I was born lost and take no pleasure in being found.” -John Steinbeck

I just feel heavy. I got home from work yesterday, put on my running clothes, went out to the couch, lay down, and slept for an hour.

Maybe it’s the Tuesday. Maybe I just need to run and sweat and exert myself. Maybe it’s the 15 hour rain and the gray. Maybe it’s the end of summer. I’ve never been a huge fan of August. I don’t know.

This was better. This helped some. This helped more. This helped a lot. Not sure about this.

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