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organ olympics

Once again earning the gold medal for Most Troublesome Organ for the 53rd year in a row, Madge's Brain takes a victory lap. Nobody cheers. 

It's a ludicrously beautiful day. I have windows and the patio door open, and the dogs have invented a new game of rolling in the dried mud and coming in to see me so I can pet them and compliment the enormous clouds of dust that waft off them with each pat. I should go outside and play with them, but the enormous fallen limb in my back yard that I have not yet been able to figure out how to get rid of (buy a chainsaw? Hire a stranger? SET FIRE TO IT?) upsets me every time I see it, so I'm stuck inside. My place is a mess - dust and pet hair everywhere, piles of junk mail, dirty and clean laundry, Something is glistening on the floor near the kitchen that I suspect may be cat vomit, but I haven't yet worked up the gumption to investigate. I have work to do, and chores to do, and nine million little stupid tasks that I keep putting off. But my shrink says when I start feeling like this I need to remind myself of the good things I've accomplished, no matter how small, so, hey! I'm on the couch, not in the bed! I've got a load of laundry in the washer. I got rid of the gross smell in the kitchen by grinding ice and baking soda in the garbage disposal. Earlier today I was stuck in bed, trying to decide what color I would assign this particular level of anxiety if I published it like they did with the COVID-danger ratings back in 2020. I settled on burnt orange. The couch is progress, notwithstanding the cat puke.

I don't know why I get this way. I was a super-productive dynamo at work yesterday, but now I'm too scared to go to the grocery store. Exercise might help. Sunlight might help. Writing this might help. Knitting eyes for the snake I made this week might help. Knocking more little tasks off the endless list might help. Scrolling endlessly on my phone won't help, and the thought of talking to another human being is downright terrifying. Maybe ignoring the fallen log and rolling in the dried mud in the yard will set me to rights. But who's going to praise me for the PigPen clouds of dust?

I know it will pass. It always does. But next time I get born, I want a better brain. 

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