The frenzied, psychedelic chirruping of the frogs is silenced by a gunshot. And another. And then another. It is 9:22pm, twelve hours to the minute since the last report of gunfire echoed along this little stretch of the Delaware Valley.

Greetings from out here in canal country, where things are getting stranger by the day. The flagstones in the basement have started weeping in the humidity, the river has become an interstate highway of rednecks on rubber tubes, and it looks like Donald J. Trump might just get his chance to Make America Great Again.

Disclaimer: If the photo that was taken of me today, in a Trump hat and a wife-beater and holding a gun, ever surfaces, I want to make it clear that it was only so that I have enough credentials when the bigot-dictator takes office that I won’t be branded a [insert: rapist/terrorist/dissenter/liberal weenie/empath/etc] and shipped off back to #Arsetralia without my wife and child.

To top it all off, I’m on the wagon and off the meds. And while the numbness of my intellect, helped along by my gargantuan fondness for artisanal fermentations and distillates, is gradually abating, things ain’t getting much clearer.

One of the unfortunate symptoms of depression, or at least my depression, is a distinct inability to do or think more than one thing at once. Sometimes this manifests as the mere incapability to survive a long day of dadding with enough energy to do more than read in bed for three minutes before the corner of a book in the eye tells me it’s time to turn out the light. (Hence the long absence of additions to this little diary of cynicisms.) But at other times, I am completely unable to pay attention to anything beyond trying to take a shit whilst the tiny dictator opens and closes the bathroom door in an insistant series of dots and dashes. I’m pretty sure it’s his wordless indication that he’s ready for his fourth breakfast.

It’s a shame, this cranial incapacity, if for no other reason than the current state of the US of A, (to say nothing of a post-Brexit UK, the borderline-post-EU, or the “whose-fucking-gummint?” Australia), and the plethora of opinions around me, ignorant, insightful, enraged, completely disinterested, is fecund ground for growing a healthy crop of crotchety observations about the dire fascinating state of the fucking planet. This is that old Chinese curse writ large: “may you live in interesting times”.

I have at least managed to come around to not living under a shroud of guilt at not being productive, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t still self-recriminating enough to be fucking annoyed with myself for not taking this opportunity to pen my magnum opus of the impending apocalypse.

Still, this is the first time in a long time that I’ve managed to overcome my emotionally-addled desire to simply sit in front of the Netflix and become slightly stupider than I was before I sat down. There exists still the faintest glimmer of hope that I won’t be in my dotage before I manage to do something more profound with my life than fighting with post-retirement-aged, territorial lunatics about whether or not a bunch of till-monkeys can be taught to read the date on a box of gluten-free, grass-fed vegan cheese, before they stock it out on the supermarket shelf.

Mind you, there is something rather profound about “cheddar-style” almond cheese.

2 Responses to “OFF MEDS”
  1. Dan says:

    being a big Pratchett fan I recognised the “Chinese proverb” from Interesting Times, but after Googling it I discovered it’s apocryphal:

    How interesting!

    • gethinalynes says:

      Interesting indeed. I suspect there are a great many assumptions regarding origin/authorship of such things that are grossly incorrect.

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