Cry Me a River. . .please

Did you ever wish you were stupid?  I do, often.  My life would be so much easier if I didn't think about it so much.  Or feel so much.  Or worry so much.  Or be so paranoid. Or. . . .well, the list is endless and my patience isn't.  (Nor yours, dear reader, I suspect.)

It's not that I believe myself to be Albert Einstein (the scientific one, not the Albert Brooks one, that would be *awesome* if I were Albert Brooks!), but I question everything, spend way too much time mulling over shit I should just take at face value, and invariably end up making the wrong conclusions about things, which makes me start the whole cycle over again.  (Side note:  My blogs seem to be heavy with cycles lately.  I must have listened to too much Joni Mitchell in my youth. Or maybe it's my body's way of  making up for menopause.) 

The upshot of 357 years of thinking, worrying, paranoying myself into a frenzy is that I can no longer cry.  That might not seem like a big deal to you, but I was the original model for the Tiny Tears doll (please tell me someone out there is old enough to remember Tiny Years!).  I cried at everything.  A few years ago there was cotton commercial with a blind girl wrapping herself in a sheer curtain to feel the fabric and I went through an entire box of tissues every time I saw it.  Forest Gump and The Green Mile rated two tissue boxes apiece.  I'd sit in the bathtub to watch Unstrung Heroes and hope I wouldn't drown.   Three legged puppies??? Forgetaboutit. 

This does not mean I do not have emotions.  I still get upset, depressed, worried, sometimes even "happy" (whateverthefuck that means), everything but angry, which, for some reason, I can't do.  Okay, I know the reason, but it's not for public consumption and I'm being TMI-ish enough in this post, agreed? I feel things, I just can't cry about them.  I am emotionally nauseous.

The Universe has, once again, conspired to throw a lot of shit at me in a short space of time, sending me into a cornucopia of emotions that I am struggling to identify and separate (unsuccessfully) and I think if I could just sit down and cry about it, I'd feel better.  But no dice.  I just stare into space in a zombie-like trance.  Perhaps if I ate people's hearts instead of their brains it would trigger the tears.  No, I'd probably just throw up. 

Well, it's Onward Agnostic Soldiers, as the old Bob Dylan song goes.  There's not much I can do about the situation except ride it out and know that I will eventually come through to the other side, much like a Black Hole. And,  like a Black Hole (I also watched too much Star Trek in my youth), I have no idea what the galaxy will look like on the other side.  But I like to think it will be full of unicorns and rainbows and good, cheap beer.  And dogs who have all four legs.