So here we are.
And I’m not gonna write about how hungry I am. First, because it’s not the real hunger of the truly hungry and it insults those who are, in fact, desperately hungry and I realize how much it makes me sound like just the quintessential caricature of a rich, spoiled, bloated American who buys expensive diet food when they eat too much regular-priced food and who drives to places where we walk on treadmills.
But damn. I totally get that recent news story about how those Mrs. Freshley’s honey buns have become currency in prisons. I have never shivved for sugar, but in the darkest alley of a parallel universe, I can see how the dungeon DTs might drive my mind to places unknown.
I’m not gonna write about one’s mind being driven to places unknown, or the stuff that’s going down right now. Because we all know that there’s some stuff going down right now.
I’m not gonna write about how I normally don’t write “gonna,” but somehow its petulance fits my mood. Even if it sounds like Dana Carvey’s Bush imitation.
I’m not gonna write about how nothing seems new. Even the new things are just shinier old things.
I’m not gonna write about butter, despite its delicious allure.
I’m not gonna write about sad and cold January can be.
I’m not gonna write about the snow that fell, or the snow that didn’t fall, or the snow that’s going to fall.
But I will write about the poor little dachshunds in the city who must look at that snow, and the ice, and the slush and think, “oh, hell no.”
Their poor little cold tummies. Their poor little short legs. Life is not always fair to those who are close to the ground.
Yes indeed. Welcome to me.