I figured I was finally coming out of my slump. Then I saw slump at the check out line of the mental grocery store.
“Hi Barbie!” he said. “Hi slump.” I said, and he followed me home like he tends to do. Slump was interested in what was going on the past couple weeks so I started the story here:
Every night I’ve monologued while I’m in bed with my mind racing thinking about how I should approach blogging about my emotional distress. I let so many thoughts fill up my mental recycling bin that they started to tumble into the mental dumpster next to it pretty much losing a lot of material I would have otherwise written wistfully about. I would watch movies and be so energized I’d glow with wide eyes obsessing over them. I read a book a day. I was in the middle of a mixed episode that was pulling at me in all directions which seemed to end when I caught this godawful virus that has me laid up the past two days. The goal is to pump as much vitamin C into my body as possible without overdosing so I can be back on my feet by Thursday.
Before I played air hockey between the poles, I was having a rough time dealing with the idea of talking about things that are bothering me. Why talk about what’s bothering you when it won’t change anything and will only make a situation feel crappier because of it? I’m aware I can’t change what said man does or wants to do with my mopeyness over how I feel about him thinking about him doing A, B, or C on his vacation. Things happen maybe once a month that I have no control over that send me into Zombie-Barbie mode, but I was afraid that as his trip was getting closer I was becoming so much of a zombie on the daily that maybe he just figured that was my new personality. Who wants to hang out with a zombie? “I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong. It’s all cool yo, whatever you wanna do today is fine by me.” Smokey Robinson sang it this way, “Now if I appear to be carefree, It’s only to camouflage my sadness, In order to shield my pride I try, To cover this hurt with a show of gladness.”
Slump only really pays attention to the sad stories, so this next part won’t interest him much, but there’s one more chunk of story left to tell, and it started on a dark and stormy day:
I went to Riot Fest and had a goddamn blast. I remembered how much I love Punk Rock. I crossed off a ton of things on my bucket list I didn’t even know I actually had on a bucket list like hearing The Offspring do “The Kid’s Aren’t Alright” and hearing the hits by The Cure. I struggled with the rest of the masses to walk through stages of mud from wet to mushy sticky clay and managed not to abandon my shoes. I played mini golf on a pepperoni pizza hole and watched burlesque girls dance naked in the same wrestling ring I saw luchadors pounding each others faces in the day before. I saw fire breathers and zombies outside the haunted house, I went on carnival rides and ate messy fair food. I saw a dude dressed as a bear and tons of freshly dyed hawks. I stood and walked so long every day the only after show I went to was the Advil one. It was the best festival I’ve ever been to and felt like a genuine vacation for three days. Now that it’s over I’m feeling pretty shitty about where I am in life again. Damn you reality.
I suppose the last thing that could be said right now, is that in the spirit of punk, FUCK YOU SLUMP.