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!