Last night I was feeling sort of punk, and by punk I don't mean green mohawk safety pin in the ear black leather jackets and doc martens sex pistols god save the queen punk. By punk I don't mean Jets vs Sharks rumble punk, pushing old ladies in the park snatching purses slicked hair and switchblades punk. And I certainly don't want you to think that by punk I mean pork pie hat, stealing apples from the fruit cart, tacks on teacher's chair dipping Sally Sue's braids in the inkwell punk.
The punk I'm speaking of is mopey self pity punk, out of sorts and down and dejected punk, eat a plate of nachos and a couple of granola bars punk, going to bed before you finished everything you intended to do self indulgent mewling pathetic whiny-ass, gee I'm such a failure what am I fucking doing with my life, just throw in the towel ya big blubbery blubbering butt-face loser punk, take yourself to bed because you make yourself ill punk full of self loathing nothing but a quivering jello-y useless piece of offal in aspic punk.
Hey, by the way, it's Mental Health Awareness Week. Just a heads up.
I had been feeling rather full of the awesome recently. A little better than normal, full of myself in a pretty good way but then yesterday noon-ish some rug I didn't even know I had been standing on got pulled out from under me, no mean feat that, and I found myself feeling mighty fucking shitty. Must have been the rug, I imagine a nice burgundy oriental rug, over the cesspit of despair and self loathing. Ah, metaphor, what would I do with out you. Also, my dog. I don't know what I'd do without my dog. He's not a metaphorical dog, he's the real dog who woke me up with his hot rancid breath in my face an hour and half ago, scared out of his wits by an unseasonable and unexpected October early morning thunder storm.
My good husband who is also real not metaphorical, lifted the 80 pounds of fur, pathos, odor and trembling onto the bed and the old buddy let me rub his ears and give him pats and chest and chin scratches while he panted and drooled and shed in my face. I'm talking about the dog now, not the spouse, just to clarify.
My good husband also wiped the dog hair and spit off my face and rubbed my shoulders which were getting a bit knotted and tired from holding and patting the dog for an hour. This gives me pause; I must be severely out of shape if petting the dog fatigues me. I'll feel bad about that later, for now, I'm dropping that thought and kicking it into a dark corner where it will quietly fester.
After the storm passed, the now calm dog and I came downstairs to hang out with the languid sisters (that's what I call the cats) who had arranged themselves tastefully like decorative throw pillows on the living room rug. Ty the Dog and I shared a peanut butter sandwich and then he sniffed out a good spot, turned around three times and lay down with a sigh on the rug between the cats and went to sleep.
So, here I am, I'm wide awake. It's 4 o'clock in the morning. I'm sitting in the dark listening to the rain watching the cats and dog sleep. I'm feeling less bad. It's like a scale has been tipped slightly, less bad more good.
You'd think I might have cause to feel pissy being awakened hours early, but the truth is, my good dog, hearing the apocalyptic sound of thunder, fearing the worst, sought me out to get some measure of comfort in my company before the certain coming doom, and that makes me feel a little less pathetic and a little more worthy.