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Where does pondering lead? To a lobotomy, that's where. - It seemed like a good idea at the time... [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]

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Where does pondering lead? To a lobotomy, that's where. [Jul. 28th, 2011|03:17 pm]
Side-effect of LJ being down is that rather than putzing around reading other people’s posts and looking at pretty pictures, I actually put down some of this stuff rolling around in my head.

For those of you hyperventilating – bookmark www.downrightnow.com and you’ll never again have to worry about whether “it’s just YOU” when whatever platform/social media whatever it is you paddle around in (there are grammarians AND computer people cringing right now) goes down.

One of the things I’ve been pondering (when not wallowing in self-despair or contemplating chewing out my wrists so I can go home on psych leave...which is not a cry for pity; if I wanted that I’d post something cryptic on Facebook so that the cascade of OH NOES and WHAT HAPPENED and HUGS could reassure me that SOMEONE cares about me. Or there wouldn’t be a cascade and then I’d know where I stand, wouldn’t I? I suppose that’s a side benefit of having so many “friends”...SOMEONE will ride your drama llama with you. Which is not making fun of people who post supportive comments…or people who DO get so depressed that they would contemplate chewing out their own wrists…not that I consider either group above making fun of...just not right NOW.)

Wait, was I pondering? Well, you know where that leads…mute the GPS, honey, she’s not going to like THIS trip.

I think my original point was that there are an awful lot of things that I can do well ONLY WHEN I’M NOT THINKING ABOUT THEM and I don’t think I like what that says about me. The best shot I’m ever going to make in volleyball is when you suddenly spike the ball right at my face. Offhandedly toss a set of keys at me, saying “here” when they’re already in midair, or I’m involved in some other conversation or project and I will probably catch them. Wait until I am looking at you and expecting you to toss them and I will either perform some gross fumble that will lead to me actually sending them in a whole ‘nother direction...or I will catch them with my EYE.

Time to make posters for an event and I’ve got a whopping 30 minutes to get them written, spraycoated, attached to supports and posted before the rain starts and they don’t look half-bad. (Not GOOD...just a little bit better than half bad...like 2/5ths bad, maybe.) Give me all evening, a ruler, and I will blow hours making posters that look like Stephen Hawking made them. (Okay, now I’m making fun of the handicapped. Yes, it sucks. But at least he’s brilliant and has gobs (compared to ME, say) of money and the respect of many. And having skipped out on making fun of the suicidal and the empathetic and the need...I’m no saint.)

And I’m talking with a friend about vague mutual acquaintances and social activities and somehow Tom Lewis’s Sailor’s Prayer came up: Oh lord above, send down a dove with beak as sharp as razors, To cut the throats of them there blokes what sells bad beer to sailors! And she couldn’t remember the tune, and then after she made several false starts, I couldn’t even BEGIN to grab a note even inside my head where usually I can. (Now, getting it OUT of my head, whole ‘nother ball of wax. Trained? Hell, my voice isn’t even FERAL. That’s me, with all sorts of great (insert caveat here) stuff INSIDE my head, with absolutely NO means of getting it out.) Anyway, I shrugged my shoulders and laughed when I realized that I was singing it to the tune of “America the Beautiful” in my head. Then opened my mouth and...sang it perfectly. Perfect being a relative term, mind you. Perfect in that if I didn’t exactly NAIL each note, I came very close to taking off my finger with it. But still, recognizable. Because of course, I wasn’t THINKING.

All of which points to this: YOU should take up neurosurgery.

Because if we’re ever in a situation where our lives depend on me hitting a note or a volleyball, you’re going to want to give me a lobotomy first.