A Hot Mess

So, I woke up in another funk. Here we go again, right? I slept well, and I feel rested, but there is still an emptiness that I cannot explain. I did not want to get up and I did not want to stay in bed. Perhaps it is just the end of summer blues.
 
I had to turn on the heat last week. It only ran for a few hours, but I was freezing. How can you be so cold when it is only 53⁰ outside? I am going to be a popsicle when winter finally darkens my doorstep.
 
Is it the colder temperature that is rendering me so apathetic? Not one single topic is dominating my thoughts. I feel indifferent about - well - everything.
 
On a normal day, any day, and all day I am usually playing psychological ping pong. My thoughts used to bounce from life’s scathing inequities to chores that needed attention and were bolstered by a meaningful dialog with Alexa to determine what day it was.
 
But now that I am back in the employment scene, my thoughts scurry on the brink of utter chaos. My Federal access is finally coming to light, but now I live in a panic zone about what an old woman’s brain will actually remember and retain.
 
It is a self-righteous journey that defies all rules of propriety. In other words, I am a hot mess.
 
Perhaps I underestimated the value of boredom. Now there is a curious word. My dear friend Webster identifies it as the feeling of being wearied by dullness, tedious repetition, unwelcome attentions, etcetera. My, isn’t that interesting? It doesn’t even mention the lack of intellectual stimulation.
 
Even my evening channel surfing lacks any specific focus. I usually allow myself to be swept away with mindless entertainment. But lately, I haven’t been able to find anything worthy of my unwavering devotion.
 
Geez, I can’t even seem to find anything that just yanks my chain.
 
I wonder… What provokes the brain to be compelled into action? Is it visual stimulation, inciteful dialogue, mindless distraction, or fear of failure? I have long lost my ability to reason with any kind of normalcy.
 
And, with all that being said, who really cares? Why am I babbling on about boredom? Why does personal satisfaction only come with energy-zapping hustle? Furthermore, why are we always asking “Why?”
 
Yep. Hot mess. I warned you. Yet, in this crazy moment, I am wrenched in cynical laughter. I am a certifiable basket case. Isn’t that a hoot? I have concluded before that lack of intellectual stimulation does not equal boredom. But it may contribute to the psychosis of neurotic old women.
 
And, of course, I am now hot and sweaty. Why did I turn on the heat? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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