Dumb Bunny and The Big, Big Void

Today, I am Dumb Bunny.  Which is better than yesterday when I was Angry Bunny…probably because I slathered on my hormone cream later than usual. Bad idea.

I know I’m going to get a lesson (again) on how to successfully upload an image to my blog page that also posts to my Facebook grrr I hate you Facebook  page. I vowed to always have a featured image for some insane I-think-people-might-be-entertained-by-it reason. I have no idea idea if anyone is entertained or not. It’s just a thing I do. Like drinking milk directly from the carton.  (note to visitors who aren’t lactose intolerant and may choose to pour themselves a tall one from my ‘fridge)

I know there’s something I have to push or click or activate while standing on my head reciting The Declaration of Independence, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what in the Sam Hill it is.  This is not surprising. I haven’t actually visited my own blog since before the name Trump was seared into our nation’s collective psyche with a red hot poker. That’s a long, long time ago so it’s no wonder I don’t recognize the place.

But it IS my place for crying’ out loud and things should not change.  Ever.  I don’t need no stinkin’ upgrades!  No cockamamie optimization bells and whistles!  Just give me a stone table and a fucking chisel and I’ll be right as rain!

Why do I suddenly feel an affinity to whoever wrote Who Moved My Cheese?

So, to the 10s of people who read my blog, I will say I’m sorry….my bad….lo siento…as you come face to face with….nothing. [big sigh]

Yet another cruel testament to my digital inadequacy.

[In an uncharacteristic burst of misguided enthusiasm, writer becomes determined to find the best goddamn cat video ever created and….wait for it!!!  PASTE it into her next blog post as a featured video!! If there is such a thing as a featured video.]

Meow

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Hate-Hate Relationship

There are times when one just has to tell the truth.

And, of course, times one has to lie.

Like that time I went out of town on that completely bogus “business trip” in ’89 and….oh, never mind because this isn’t one of those times.

This time it’s about truth.

And the truth in this case is agonizing because I feel profound guilt for feeling this way and I don’t know why because feeling guilty in this case makes no sense.  It’s one of those useless internal struggles that doesn’t involve anyone but me and therefore should not officially count as guilt because guilt, in my opinion involves other humans.   Like bullshitting your way out of something you never wanted to go to in the first place or blatantly lying when attempting to save your own ass if the consequence is making someone else feel shitty or insecure.

For example:

“I reeeeally wish I could make it over tonight.  Bunco sounds like such a fun game but I fear my strep throat may turn into a flesh eating virus if I don’t take it easy.”

Or:

“I don’t care what anybody said, I was wearing my wedding ring the whole night!”

(Disclaimer:  The above references are completely made up.  I have never, I repeat NEVER, used them myself even in an attempt to a) get out of Bunco or b) prevent a nasty domestic dispute….at least not verbatim.)

Regardless….I am a tortured soul. (Maybe I should go write a song for Eddie Vedder).

And my tormentor?

Hot yoga.

I hate it.

With every fiber of my sweat-soaked being I hate it.

I had to get that out. 

It was eating me alive!

I just hope that dissing yoga doesn’t come with some sort of unpleasant next-life consequence because god knows I’ve prodded the karma gods more times than I want to admit and don’t need the publicity and for sure don’t want to come back as a pathetic contestant on Rock of Love or Dance Your Ass Off.

Perhaps I’m confusing guilt with fear.

Whatever it is, the truth remains the same.

Hot yoga is 90 minutes of hell. 

Or maybe just a glimpse of hell.

In fact, I’m beginning to think it actually IS a Hell Orientation.  Like one of those time-share things. You get a preview of what you’re getting in to if you just take the tour.

“…and with your Hell package, you can get your choice of around-the-clock, red-hot, humanity-packed group classes OR the oh-so-special private Yogi instruction where you’ll be taunted and chastised for wearing cotton or staking out a place by the door.  Please see one of our Hell Specialists about discounted rates for liars, adulterers and other profound sinners!  Namaste!”

Hmmmm…..I always thought cotton was the fabric of our lives and being by the door has benefits, I can tell you that.  Sometimes those Hell Specialists forget to put a rolled up towel under it and there’s this tiiiiiny little space that allows for an occasional wisp of cool air from the outside world to seep in and give me hope that I won’t perish.

It’s the little things that keep me going.

I’ll bet Eddie does hot yoga.