Hey, I’m back.
Why haven’t I posted in the last month?
Well, I had a metric shit-ton of work. And allergies. They’re really bad this year, seriously – I want to scratch my eyes with a fork.
And there was that ash cloud.
OK, I can’t really blame the volcano in Iceland. Especially since I can’t pronounce it. Guess I can’t blame pollen, either. Or even my workload, which is a legitimate time eater. I also can’t blame it on Rio. Or blame it on the rain, girl.
The thing that’s been keeping me from writing, and other things I normally like to do, is what I’ve finally realized is a mild seasonal depression.
It happens every year, and every year I’m like, “What’s wrong with me? I was a winner, and now I’m a loser.”
Now that I recognize the pattern, it’s a lot easier to deal with. I just let it take over and know that it’ll pass.
I call it my April Funk. Sounds like a hot dance move, but it’s actually a state of blah where all I want to do is lie on the sofa and watch full seasons of TV series all the way through. Binge-style.
This year, it started with season three of Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew. Fittingly, that was my gateway drug. Mackenzie Phillips and Heidi Fleiss talking about their (respective) heroin and meth addictions? How could I not watch every episode back to back?
Then, I worked my way through the earlier seasons. Next, Sober House (“where recovery ends and the real work begins”). Finally, Sex Rehab. It’s not that good, but I’d developed a dependency on all things Dr. Drew. So far, he doesn’t have a show for that addiction.
I watched all of Breaking Bad in a day. It was so good that I considered knocking myself in the head to get amnesia, so I could watch it again with fresh eyes. Instead, I settled for season 1 of Glee.
During it all, my husband has been shaking his head sadly at the strains of reality show cat-fighting or screechy musical numbers that seep from my headphones. Also, at the dent I’m making on the couch. (“You’re ruining it!”)
I could stretch this out till the end of April, since it’s the April Funk. But it actually started in March, and I only want to give it a month. So I’m now crawling out of my hole.
Time to get back to the real world. And back to posting here.
I’ve read that you’re supposed to take extra care of your blog in the beginning, like you would a baby.
Well, fortunately, my blog isn’t a child.
If it were, protective services would have taken it away by now and put it in foster care. Or my parents would have taken it. I wouldn’t trust my parents with a blog. I’d take them to court to get it back.
I’d wear a respectable skirt and my good blouse, and comb my hair to show I’d cleaned up my act – though the bad dye job and dark roots would give me away. Over my wailing, the judge would award custody of the blog to its grandparents. They’d raise it as their own and let the blog grow up thinking I was its fucked up older sister.
Good thing that didn’t happen.
See, I told you I watched a lot of TV.