It's All About Me:
Sometimes the words escape me.
I attribute it to burnout from anger, and the anxiety that causes the anger in the first place. So many things to be disturbed about, so little time. You reach a point where you just become numb to everything or else your head will explode.
I could blog about the current media craze entitled "Pope Death Watch", but I find that I really, truly, deep-down just don't care right now. After all, the guy is coming out with a book that calls gay marriage part of the "ideology of evil." And once again I find that I'm supposed to "rise above", be more Christian than the Christians as it were, and find compassion in my heart for this sick old man. Nah. Never mind. Get kind of tired of being the one who has to be "understanding" while they persecute people. Fuck it.
A diarist at Kos put together a very scary story of all the fundies who would have us dead. Seriously. Quotes and everything. That is what these people advocate. Wow.
So, you just get numb to that, and as a consequence, to everything.
My mind this morning turns to my "miracle fish". Fred, the surviving half of the duo once known as "LaVerne & Fred", had been feeling poorly this past week; not eating, just sitting at the bottom of his fishbowl. I thought for sure his time was just about up. A little Internet research pointed to a cure- salt in the water. I happened to have some non-iodidezed (sp?) salt and -waa laa!- this morning Fred is swimming around and eating his food. He's not out of the woods yet, but an amazing improvement from yesterday.
Why care about the fish? Well, Kristin got him for one. He was a replacement for "Shirley", who was murdered by Baby. (It's a long story.) I've had him for four years, and he has come to symbolize a happier time in my life, the time when everything was going good and I had all the hope in the world. Before it all came crashing down, piece by piece. Before the "Dark Times". Before the "Empire". (stealing from Obi-Wan)
Who will live longest, the Pope or my fish? Probably the Pope. Something tells me they will hook that guy up to every known machine to keep him going, glorify his suffering, while my fish will probably just die and have a little toilet-side ceremony of thanks for the joy he brought me.
Which is more than I can say for the Pope.
Hang in there, Fred.