I've been confined to a bed for most of the past thirty hours. I don't have the flu. I didn't break an ankle. There wasn't an ALF marathon on TV Land, though I wish there were. I just loved ALF. I had an Alf sleeping bag for years and years and years. Until it finally wore out from too much use. Now I suppose I'll have to find a new sleeping bag.
No, this thirty hour binge of chain smoking and sleep that borders on comatose was brought on by my arch enemy: Life.
I just fucking hate that guy.
I'm not really going to get into the specifics of my situation, other than to say this is not the first time I've done something like this.
I don't deal with stress very well. It's not wired into my brain to react correctly to fucked up situations. I adhere to a strict policy of hiding from my problems and eventually, they'll just go away.
And that approach has delivered time after time, with consistent results.
I've grown resentful of Floyd. And that's not right. It's not fair to him anymore. It's not his fault his owner is a dirtbag who has no intentions of ever coming back for him.
And I have no real problem with the little guy... other than the fact that I don't want him here. But I can't just give him away to some strange person. Or even someone I know. It's just not fair. He's the sweetest dog in the world, if you can look past his irrepressible hyperactivity. And he deserves a better deal than the one he's been given.
He's not the reason for my current state of angst, mind you. He's merely a player in the wildly unimaginitive stage show that is my life. (It's not a Busby Berkely musical or anything like that. Maybe an Arthur Miller. Or Goethe might be more accurate. There's something almost Faustian about this whole thing. But Faust, if it were written by Joe Eszterhas apparently.)
This post really had no point.
A friend recently pointed out that I seem to have all the answers for everybody else, but I can't answer the same questions when I ask them of myself.
And to that person, I say... you're right. I know it's easy to find the fault in others. And it's just as easy to quickly examine other's situations and offer pointed cogent criticism. But when the time comes to examine my own life, the answers are curiously absent.
It's obvious I need to rethink a few things. This is beginning to get a tad bothersome. Not that I don't like to sleep for a whole day every now and again. But I like it to be of my own volition. Not because I just can't force myself to face an issue that desperately needs my attention.