How can it be November already? Didn’t we just
have August? Time is passing with
ruthless abandon, which coincides in the macabre realization that ruin is the
destiny of all flesh.
And speaking of the macabre, the nation has just been carpet
bombed by the ubiquitous campaigns of candidates being willfully obtuse, aglow
with cleanness and looking chipper, while trying to smite their opponents dead
with a log.
We voters morphed into stuporous zombies, morbidly
fascinated by the potential of disaster, as we’re wheeled into intensive care
for the criminally skeptical.
Without pausing for a commercial break, the politicians and
pundits, those spongy-minded severely foolish who populate the airwaves, are
grandly sprinting toward the 2016 elections, positively radiating predictions
and prognostications.
I think I’d rather be savaged by a rabid congressman with a
flea collar and a medical history.
The whole campaign circus becomes ludicrous at some
point. I find myself out of rhythm
and out of sorts. But to be fair,
it really is not about the elections.
I’m frequently saucer-eyed and confused even when not being assaulted by
narcissistic candidates with flaring nostrils and gleaming teeth, oozing oily
sincerity.
I think I’ve figured out why. The universe just shifted its paradigm from Daylight Savings
Time to “night-by-4:30 p.m., fuzzy-bunny-slippers-before-6:00-news” Standard
Time.
That shift was violent – Big Bang colossal “I want my Mommy”
kind of upheaval. And the
consequences are pronounced. I
violently dislike disruption.
Routine is difficult to establish.
I “sprang forward” in March, and nearly fell flat on my face. And just when I have adjusted and stemmed
the constant warming squirts of my adrenal fluid, I have to “fall back,” right
on my doughy gluteal landing pad.
I like to think the universe is well-ordered, predicated on
logical sequence. But twice a
year, it seems as if a coup d’etat
by some chaos demon with a mutant Ninja army of Pee Wee Herman
cross-dressers have realigned the system and created planetary havoc by
disrupting the precious circadian rhythm of the world’s inhabitants.
Of course, there are those who insist that predictability is
the enemy of drama. Such people lead
lives of wretched despair. I HATE
DRAMA. Predictability is not a
transgression. Leave drama to the Kardashians,
the uselessly attractive, and the benignly idiosyncratic.
Oh, I know what ails me. I suffer from chronic circadian arrhythmia, (aka circadian
confusion, circadian chaos). For a sizable portion of the calendar year, I resort to
bizarre and erratic behavior. I become moronically obsessed with recalibrating
my system and getting all my circadian in a row.
Naturally, profound lack of human dignity is something I
suffer in silent humiliation. I
feel all purply and Barney-like inside.
I’m half a Rorschach, one hand clapping, with all my participles
dangling.
My words collide with each other, and I fear strangers can see
thought bubbles floating above my head.
I shamble through my day in an orgy of befuddlement, with a mind
severely and arrestingly wrenched from its hinges.
There is no pattern to my sleep because I awake at 3:00 a.m.
craving cheeseburgers and dirty diet coke. I resort to reciting the periodic table of elements or
conjugating irregular expletives just to soothe erratic brain waves. On top of
all that, I’ve gone viral – I think I’m coming down with a cold.
In short, I’ve become FECKLESS.
Short of indulging in reverse engineering, or conjuring the
Oracle at Delphi, I’m not sure what the answer is. I suppose, as I go through yet another period of adjustment,
I should be guided by the first rule of medicine: “First, do no harm.”
Yes, I rather like that.
Maybe that concept will restore order
to the universe. The more I think
about it, the more I think it should be tattooed on the forehead of every
politician in the country. First,
do no harm. It might not change
the world, but it could possibly eliminate a whole lot of drama!
