Rising from the ashes of your own angst

It typically happens three, four times a year, maybe.  It’s not frequent.  But sometimes, just every so often, I unintentionally cover myself in such a dark, grumpy, curmudgeonly cloud that Ebenezer Scrooge himself would raise an (excessively bushy) eyebrow at me and say, “Damn, who dropped the fire ants down his skirt?”

The Puddinette and I refer to it as simply “a mood,” and I’ve referred to it in the past.  Most recently, it seems I’ve been the surly mayor of Whineyton most of the later half of this week.

At least, I was.  Thankfully, the part of me that demands I live my Life while doing something awesome with it looked my inner grump up and down, smacked him square in the face a few times, strapped him to an Acme rocket Wile E. Coyote-style, and lit the fuse.

I’m thankful that the “Live your damn Life” side of me doesn’t go quiet for long.

The thing is, the Mood was one of my own making.  See, I’d convinced myself that Wednesday’s post was, like, The. Awesomest. Thing. Ever.  And you know, it did greatly amuse me and the Puddinette*, but as for burning up the internet with various shares, links, and retweets?  Um, yeah, so, it brought in a slight uptick of traffic, roughly equivalent, you know, Wednesday with a sprinkling of utter random chance. Largely, though, the webs went, “Eh,” and returned to looking for kitten pictures.  Meanwhile, I set to bashing my head against my keyboard so as to avoid all the irritatingly loud cricket-chirping in my immediate vicinity.

I’m not trying

It’s funny how we set ourselves up for our own disappointments, isn’t it?

Anyway, the Dark Brooding Grumble-Grumble Fiend wasn’t content with just making me grumpy, so my bad mood quickly spiraled into a nasty, goo-filled pustule of self-doubt the size of Rush Limbaugh’s ego, which is about the worst that you can let grow in your head when you’re a writer.  Well, except for maybe those creepy ear-crayfish from Star Trek II.

The good news is that in the midst of all my, well, MMRRRRRRGRRGGHH, I had a light bulb moment related to the aforementioned doubt, realized I was being a whiny guttersloth, and then heard a Rage Against the Machine song that made it impossible to continue my MEH.

Which brings me to tonight’s point: as much as I’d like to wave my shiny happy wand and implore everyone to never let a case of the crabs, er, crabbiness encroach into your life, the simple fact is that occasionally, everybody gets blue like an Eskimo during a midnight fire drill. What I will say, however, is that you gotta cut that shizznit shorter than an Oompa Loompa with a compressed spine and a three pack-a-day habit.  In other words, find your light bulb as quickly as you can, and roll with it.  Pick yourself up, set yourself aflame**, Phoenix-like and get back to kick ass.

Which is exactly what I’m going to do now.

Oh, hey, and as an added bonus of all the mopey ruminatin’ from the past couple of days, I did actually think of a couple of things worth discussing. In fact, one of them will factor prominently in tomorrow’s weekend debate.

So, you know, good luck trying to sleep knowing that’s coming up!

Pud’n


*Mental note: Dumbass, try to remember that that’s really what’s important here, and if you accidentally manage to entertain anyone else it’s gravy.
**Don’t do this.  Really, it’s a bad idea.  Seriously. I’m not kidding.

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