The End of Me

Oh, chickens. Today involved tears.

I am a proud little peacock (really just a chicken who wants to think of herself as a peacock), and mea culpa, etc., I was not upset for legitimate reasons, but because I want to be thought of as pretty, clever, charming, and generally AWESOME. Preferably by as many people as possible. If not everyone.

At least the Motivational Manatees love me.

But as per usual I was awkward, negative, and--well I think my hair looked okay, so there's that.

I couldn't wait to get back to my car to have a little self-indulgent cry.

So I turn the key in the ignition and as my stereo pops on I see that the song about to start is a Bible verse, and I think "Lord, please do not tell me that I'm so dense you need to play a blatantly relevant Good Word right now."

I'm that dense.

It was Psalm 115: Not to us, LORD, not to us but to your name be the glory, because of your love and faithfulness.

Mmmhmm.

Then I got home and checked Facebook (Because...I was trying to throw more fuel on the fire? Am I the only one who occasionally sees the light at the end of my Tunnel o' Putrid Self Funk but AVOIDS the light because I want to wallow in the stank for a while longer? Yes? Okay then.).

My best efforts at climbing back into my pit were foiled again, however, because a friend had posted a link to this post on a new-to-me blog, and from there I found this post: Battle Discontent with Thankfulness.

If you don't feel like clicking over, the first suggestion is to never complain.

Never complain. Even about the weather.

I'm gonna try it, folks. And it ain't going to be pretty because I think about 40 percent of my conversation in "banter" mode is low-level complaining. (You want to hang out with me, don't you?) So awkward girl is about to get more awkward.

I also had to ask myself, "Self, can you blog without complaining?" And I answered a resounding, "of course!" But I've come to know myself pretty well after these thirtysomething years together, so I followed up with "But can you do that without exclusively writing schmalpy sentimental drivel?" And the answer to that is "Erm. Hrrmm. Maybe."

Stay tuned!