...pretty sick, that is.
No, no, not the puking-up-my-intestines kind of sick, not even the burning-up-with-fever-and-hallucinating kind of sick (although it sure is damn hot here -- 36.5 degrees Celsius yesterday, that's 97.7 degrees Fahrenheit to you Americans). No, it's more like the dispirited, blech, down in the dumps kind of sick. Which is even worse. It's because of some crappy things that I can't explain (or don't really want to). So be a pal, won't you? Just hold my hand, or give me a reassuring pat on the back, or hug me tight. Chocolate would be nice, too. Thanks. *sniff*
Reading you guys somehow helps lift me out of the doldrums. So many of you make me laugh, and you will never know just how much I appreciate it. So give yourselves a round of applause for your ability to calm the raging madwoman seething just beneath the surface, spewing venomous froth, and stopping her from embarking on a maniacal, murderous castration spree.
[Special moment of appreciation now for my newest source of lightheartedness: Daddy Papersurfer, witty progenitor of Papersurfer and Tiggz, enthralled and willing captive of the magnificently Terrible Goddess. Man, that family is so cool. Their online interactions make me laugh. Go show DaddyP some love and support; he's taking his baby steps in the blogging world. Look, isn't he adorable?]
Another thing that helps to cheer me up when the Fates conspire to use my head for a toilet bowl cleaner or my heart for toilet paper is to imagine myself in an out-of-this-world situation, doing something totally out of character for me, something really outlandish.
Like maybe being a terra cotta statue model. You know, something like those thousands of life-size figures a certain Chinese emperor had with him in his tomb to guard his remains. This guy, for example.
We make quite the couple, don't we? Maybe the ladies thought he was ultra hot back in his day. He's not my type, though. Too stiff. But I'm not totally without fault; the least I could've done was to dress appropriately. What the heck, I have practically no sartorial sense when it comes to tomb attire.
Maybe I could sell plaster casts of myself, to be made into statues, the kind you see watching benevolently over graves in the cemetery.
But imagine a conversation between two archaeologists digging at a gravesite a millennium from now:
Archaeologist 1: Those 21st century people sure had some quaint customs, didn't they? They perpetuated their ancestors' practice of making lifelike sculptures to watch over their tombs and graves.
Archaeologist 2: Yes. They had statues of all sorts of creatures built to watch over them in the afterlife: cats, birds, angels, even figures of children!
A1: Oh, look! [brushes centuries-old dirt off the head of a rather statuesque statue...ha ha ha!] I wonder who this one was?
A2: [squints to read inscription on the statue's ass] It says here that this one was Woman. She blogged.
A1 and A2: Oohhhh. [respectful silence.] Fancy a beer?
[Note to self: erase life-size statue from list of what else I could be aside from what I am right now.]