Thursday, January 31, 2013
Head of Steam
Have I talked about anxiety before? No? How strange. How very strange. A gross oversight, as Sherlock Holmes might have said to Watson.
Watson, my dear, how remiss you have been not to see the elephant under the carpet. Do you not see, old chum, how the edges of the carpet are three feet off the floor? Come come! Upon closer inspection do you not find that the pipe that you have been unsuccessfully trying to light is, in actuality, a large tusker elephant's trunk? My dear, Watson.
My anxiety, some of which is genetic (I blame my mother, see the motherfucker gene, MTHFR) is the steam engine of my train. I throw logs into it's fire with my little blue-striped train conductor's cap on like I'm a Looney Toons cartoon, and get all sweaty doing so, I am covered in soot, and I ring the bell. Who rings the bell? I ring the bell. Next station stop?
There is no "next station stop," Watson, because -- isn't it obvious -- this train is runaway. When given the choice to fight or flight, it turns heel and fleets like Atalanta, baby. This train is bound for glory.