It eventually leads back to the bugs
I recently started ingesting what I like to call 'my happy pills.' No, I'm not being medicated for OCD, bipolar disorder, depression, or any of the other (numerous) illnesses that plague me every time I visit WebMD.com. They're vitamins. Or rather, they're omega-3 joy pills.
See, if you're prone to Celtic broodiness, which happens to course through my Irish blood like a death-barge down the river Shannon, sometimes your happy hormones need to be coaxed from their frustrated ruminations about the toxins being poured into China's Chiang-Liang river. Apparently, all it takes to stimulate these happy hormones is fish juice. Packaged in large yellow celluloid cartridges that could choke a horse.
So, I've been forcing two of these torpedoes of happiness down my gullet every day for about a week now, and I've gotta say--the placebo effect has kicked in sooner than anticipated. In fact, I hardly brooded at all this weekend. Well, maybe just a little when we were doing some final mix adjustments on our album. But I reserve the right to brood about my art--sorry, my Art. (If you're gonna be pretentious, why not go all the way?)
The only thing I worry about is this: once the brooding's gone, what will be left to fill the vacuous caverns of my mind? Just this morning, I found myself questioning strange little details about my life, like "why do I keep buying olives when there are already four jars in the fridge?" and "why do I refuse to throw out my old ink-jet cartridges?" and "why did Bruce Willis have to destroy several office towers to save the hostages in Die Hard?" If this keeps up, I will become intensely boring, albeit clutter-free, not to mention terminally unable to suspend disbelief. Am I ready for that kind of life change?
But I read this and realized that nothing's really boring when you approach it with passion. And then I read this and wondered what right I had to demand that fish lose their lives so that I can be happy. And then I realized that I was brooding. And that made me kind of...happy.
See, if you're prone to Celtic broodiness, which happens to course through my Irish blood like a death-barge down the river Shannon, sometimes your happy hormones need to be coaxed from their frustrated ruminations about the toxins being poured into China's Chiang-Liang river. Apparently, all it takes to stimulate these happy hormones is fish juice. Packaged in large yellow celluloid cartridges that could choke a horse.
So, I've been forcing two of these torpedoes of happiness down my gullet every day for about a week now, and I've gotta say--the placebo effect has kicked in sooner than anticipated. In fact, I hardly brooded at all this weekend. Well, maybe just a little when we were doing some final mix adjustments on our album. But I reserve the right to brood about my art--sorry, my Art. (If you're gonna be pretentious, why not go all the way?)
The only thing I worry about is this: once the brooding's gone, what will be left to fill the vacuous caverns of my mind? Just this morning, I found myself questioning strange little details about my life, like "why do I keep buying olives when there are already four jars in the fridge?" and "why do I refuse to throw out my old ink-jet cartridges?" and "why did Bruce Willis have to destroy several office towers to save the hostages in Die Hard?" If this keeps up, I will become intensely boring, albeit clutter-free, not to mention terminally unable to suspend disbelief. Am I ready for that kind of life change?
But I read this and realized that nothing's really boring when you approach it with passion. And then I read this and wondered what right I had to demand that fish lose their lives so that I can be happy. And then I realized that I was brooding. And that made me kind of...happy.
2 Comments:
i wonder if there's any crazy unexplored nutritional value from ground up caterpillers...
good ol' suzie sunshine...
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