Yesterday, I took a trip to a spa. You know, a spa? Where it is supposed to be all peace and quiet and zen and flute music and bought-and-paid-for pampering?
Yeah. That's what I THOUGHT it was supposed to be, too.
I guess the lady in the waiting area didn't think so. She was yammering away on her cell phone while I sat still and tried to deep breathe. It was hard to refrain from taking her phone away from her and beating her to a freaking pulp with it.
Passion. For most of my life, I have been ruled by passion. Consumed by passion. Defeated by passion.
It's a slippery slope, passion. One seldom stops to ask whether the object of one's passion returns that emotion. Instead, we give a little more. Try a little harder. Hope for an acknowledgement of our investment. Passion is a dance with blind faith. What we put into a thing will be what we get out of it.
The post office on a tax filing due date is Hell. I was only there to mail my tax returns. Yes, at the last minute. I waited in line, scribbling my particulars on the green certified mail forms.
Satan at Window One. He summoned me.
Watching Hee-Haw reruns from your childhood, the ones where drunk-and-disheveled men warble "Gloom Despair and Agony on Me." You can relate, but hormonal empathy is misguided empathy.
The link blared there. In my Facebook newsfeed. I'm surprised I saw it, given the advertising platform the place has become.
There it was. A link to a horoscope. Shared by my editor.