Happy stuff is boring; that is the problem.

I've spent two nights this week sleeping on my porch. Or balcony. What do you call a balcony that is just an inch off the ground? I haven't figured this matter out. My barely-balcony is quite large, and has the novelty of being completely screened in. On it, I have a comfy sofa-type thing that is not too indoorsy to look right out there. Both nights got cold, but I stayed warm under my blankie. The birds start going nuts before the sun even comes up; it's beautiful. I felt very wild out there, waking up like that. Everything seemed in a deeper perspective than I can remember since early childhood.

But alas, I have screwed up my bank balances again, and must run to put out fires. For ten years I paid my sister to handle all my finances; this is only my third pay period on my own, and again another stupid blunder. I was meant to be rich.

I had a great thought on my way in to work this morning, and I've let it get far enough away that I can only see its shape. But it had to do with writing positive things, as in 'happy' things, as opposed to the sadder and more easily attainable things. I think what I was thinking is something along the lines of my having psychological/subconscious difficulties with feeling or being or certainly talking about being happy. There is definitely a barrier of sorts. Except on rare occasions, I don't feel comfortable saying or discussing positive things that relate to myself. Whether they be along the compliment lines, acheivement, success, or simply my own feelings, I dart and avoid them; I am pretty masterful at turning a conversation almost invisibly back to the other person at such times.

So.

Oh, and also, so I realized the impact this may, and probably does, have on my writing. How frustrated I've been that it's only the woe and sadness and anger that I feel like writing when I write. I keep wondering when I will "get past this," or get enough of it "out," so that my sunnier side will get a chance on the page.

Well, put these thoughts together, and it occurred to me that maybe the dark stuff has an easier path out to the page. It certainly has an easier path to expression; I am comfortable going there with regard to others. I am not embarrassed letting others know, when reasonably interested, that I have sadness, problems, a history, etc. But to let them know that I also have moments of joy, victories, successes that I've earned, that sets off alarms that bleat "NO WAY!" Danger, Will Robinson.

So. If that is the case, then maybe I do have just as much chance of writing happier stuff, if only I can get used to the feeling of letting others know it.

This is sounding stupid to me now, so I will just go ahead with my plan of writing something that makes me happy today. I will try to write these bits as much as possible, maybe once a day. And, truth be told, it is inspired by the possibility that I am dying of cancer. If I am facing the end of my rope, I sure as fuck want to be able to spend the time feeling good, you know?

- - -

Okay, frankly, writing that out made me happy. But here's more.

Today I am happy because the sun is shining.
...
Ha ha ha! Boy, original. I guess the truth is that after writing that out up there, I am not in the frame of mind to write about happy things. Plus, it is time to go home from work. I will regroup and post my joyous self later.

This entry is powered by Dove dark chocolate Easter eggs.

I did not go to the family Easter this year. I had decided ahead of time I wasn't going, because I'm in that side of my circular cycle of family relationships. The side that makes me feel mentally handicapped for voluntarily spending time with a stepfather who monstered sanity right out of me for eight years. And my aunt's husband who used the standard pedophile molester moves in my childhood. And the family who called me 'weird' all my life for wanting to make such a big deal about such things.

So, I was staying home and mourning my adult-level, moved-on-past-it-all, grown-up persona that has not yet arrived, 'lo these many decades.

Then, I ended up breaking up with a very nice guy on top of it all.

The first half of my Easter was great. My dog and I walked for more than an hour on a sunny and warm morning. We rambled; we roamed. We found a field and I laid down on my back under the sky and looked up, and read my current book, and Riley wandered in circles and found stuff to roll in. And even something to eat; I didn't look. Then we came home and I got into my giant feather chair and read, and snoozed, and sunshine was all over me in slats from the shutters.

Then the nice guy called and a lot of pain was felt and the breaking up was final and items were left on the stoop to be exchanged. It is my curse to care so deeply about people I do not want to be partnered with. I am a natural born therapist, I think. Or patient. Ha ha.

Here is a story for you, dear reader.

Once upon a stinky time, there lived a crust of bread. Under a sofa the crust had lived for many years, heroically escaping the fate of ants and vacuums and four-year-old fingers.

One day, the stink of the couch underneath was so strong, little Crusty decided he'd had enough.

"I've had enough," he said.

And someone heard him.

And this is what happens when you are dead tired and want to sleep but are high on Dove dark chocolate eggs and want to keep it fresh on the blogspot, man, but the truth is you are not fresh and have nothing to offer because your brain is dead and your eyes, oh how they sag.

Good night.

"A friend is one before whom I may think aloud."
---Ralph Waldo Emerson