So a hideous and horrible thought struck me last night: that the reason I am moping around like a friendless waif (wrong word for someone weighing in at a healthy 125) alone in the middle of the desert toiling away night and day at maintaining a constantly-in-need-of-repairs old house on a dirt road off a dirt road in a depressed little mining town in the Southwest is because I gave up my apartment in New York two years ago for not too many pieces of silver.
(I think the sentence - if that's what it can be called ha ha - above is proof once and for all that the writing instructor who told me I wrote as though I have to get every thought in my head out at once was right. I prefer to think it's because I have natal Mars in Pisces loosely opposed to Jupiter in Virgo)
Whatever, as the children say. It is more than possible that my present state can be blamed on having taken myself - unsupervised, of course - off of my anti-depressant medication several months ago. Just in case this is the true cause, I am now - unsupervised, of course - back on my anti-depressant medication and hope to soon be happily moving cinder-blocks and weeding and sweeping and washing floors and cleaning windows and putting salt in the water-softener and changing the kitty litter and going to the dump and generally enjoying my extreme good fortune which has me living in a beautiful house on a dirt road off a dirt road only four miles from Walmart in the mountains of New Mexico and owning Apple stock.
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