Uh, yeah. Hi. It’s… been a while.
Let’s just cut right to the chase: I’m been undergoing what I can only describe as a complete renovation of my internal motivation systems.
It doesn’t really do to underemphasize how profound the last two and half months have been. All bullshit aside, I’m fucking tearing up (all weepy-like) as I’m typing this shit. Seriously.
It seems dumb to me to make the statement that something as simple as getting into a place where my eating habits are healthy could have such a vast effect on me, but… that is, in fact, the case.
Actually, I suppse that considering that my eating habits were killing me, I suppose it’s not so suprising. But still.
I mentioned a while back that I’ve misplaced a couple of these 5-pound turkeys I’ve been carrying around in my belly. Well, I gotta say, the goddamn things keep going missing. I’ve lost eight of those motherfuckers so far, and… I’ll tell ya, I don’t really miss them. They can kinda stay lost for all I care, actually.
But here’s the thing. The actual turkeys aren’t so much the issue. It’s the sanity that is the really big thing. I mean…
Let’s say it this way.
When I was employed in the business of raising and breeding those turkeys, I was a little nuts. And, even though I was a little nuts, I clear enough to be pretty sure that those turkeys would rise up someday , break free of their little pen, and peck the holy hell outta me. Peck me to death, you understand. Guarenteed. That was rather unnerving, given that I was busily feeding and raising those plump little bastards. I mean… why?
Now, looking back on it, I’m understanding better my contribution to that turkey pen. And, the really frightening thing is that I’ve come to understand that I’ve got a goddamn turkey farmer inside me (let’s call him “Clem”), and he’s absolutely dedicated to the idea that I need as many turkeys in that pen as I can manage get my hands on.
Clem and I don’t really see eye to eye on the turkey issue.
Fortunately, I have friends. It appears I’m not the only one with a turkey farmer inside them, and it’s startlingly helpful to sit and talk with other folks who understand and fear their own version of Clem (be they Leeroy, Agnes, Wilbur, or Edna). Something about it works, and I intend to stick with it. The alternative seems to be going back into the turkey farming business , and that terrifies me.
Like, really, for sure, actual fear, not just theoretical fear, but grips-yer-heart-with-cold-clenching-death kind of fear. Yeah, like that. Fear.
Good to be back, great to see you all. Lemme know if you find any of my turkeys.