The Opposite of Hallelujah

Title inspired by this guyyyy.

Damn, summer doldrums
Electric bills, what the heck
The plants need a beer.

I can feel I am in the final hours of a formidable existential funk I've been in since apparently lighting the black flame candle of seasonal malcontent at some point in the last week. This post will be unavoidably laced with macabre Hocus Pocus references as I am unable to quench my thirst for a change in seasons and it's clouding everything I do. I fear I have become but a fragile, sallow child who cannot trust the outside world.

The spores! The spores!

It's August in Texas - brown, sweaty, paralyzing. In waiting it out, I've been leaning on the soft, padded shoulder of Parks and Recreation, from whose characters I gather confusingly sincere comfort and inspiration. Leslie Knope doesn't get sad or anxious out of the blue and when she does get sad she is hilarious and is also a real person. I can be like Leslie because she is real.

I'm experienced enough and well-versed in my own tides to know this will pass soon and, true to my annual August lull, it will probably be in a consistent state of flux as we power through summer like chocolate chips under a hair dryer and come out the other side into cool, blue skies 'n' pumpkin pies. Until then, everything and everyone is a threat.

I haven't felt like doing much besides definitely sleep, maybe eat, maybe write, and definitely watch TV (tried and true knight of my dreams, forever mistaken but very attractive in attempting to rescue me from my tower of reality). Staring at my computer screen has been blurring my vision and leading to headaches. I forget to blink and m'eyeballs are PARCHED. I have been in the throes of a hypochondriac mental meltdown in the belief that some part of my body is harboring a silent killer. Can hypochondria become hypERchondria? What even IS 'chondria'? Because I have that.

This is all to say that slumps are inevitable, especially in late August, but I am happy to recognize by now that they do not last and, in passing, serve as a reminder of how wonderful the simple absence of melancholy is. I weather the baditudes and come flying out on my broomstick just as well as ever. In the meantime, some unscheduled time with Ron Swanson and several blocks of cheese never killed anyone. IT IS JUST SO HOT. This doom will subside and I will quit being a festering glob of boiled cabbage when I am good and ready. I hole up for the end of summer AND DON'T TRY TO STOP ME.


To beat the heat I went to the movies to see "The Look of Silence" and felt absurd for ever complaining, but also extremely grateful for my privileged existence and lack of military dictatorship therein. It reminded me of those goons in Bastrop building up their own militia in response to government tyranny over their country gas station decor or whatever it is they think anyone cares about out there. They want a revolution and the ability to shoot everyone. We're spoiled because smart people made it so we can live with electricity in a well-developed society that has troubles largely in the nature of curbing cheeseburger addictions or limiting Netflix binging when trapped indoors or the outrageous cost of an interactive wand at The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. You'll have to alcoholize the butter beer before I pay that!!

Anyway, here are some visions I have foreseen in the mirages of Texas heat in these last weeks of hell:
  • That first day when the air cools and you can drive home with your car windows down. Opening windows at home. The air smells better and being outside feels like being at recess.
  • Pumpkin beer o.u.t.s.i.d.e.
  • Fresh dog costumes for poor Rufus.
  • Back to school sales that remind us all of the back to school dread we no longer have to manage.
  • Crunchy leaves.
  • Shrouding my abode in black silhouettes and gauzy darkness.
  • American Horror Story, though I always suspect I'm being trolled when someone tells me they like it, too.
  • The glow of orange Halloween lights at night.
  • H-A-L-L-O-W-E-E-N ! ! !

Finally, I would like to point to THIS COMPILATION VIDEO of my new favorite fictional person, the Peter Pettigrew on my Marauder's Map of mental well-being: Crazy Craig Middlebrooks. I need go lie down for 45 minutes. No. An HOUR. A FULL HOUR.


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