When I’m upset recently, I have a little shoulder angel (if you can call the creature that sits on my shoulder who looks like François-Marie Arouet and a little like Albert Camus, perhaps with a bit of Friedrich Nietzsche around the eyes, an angel of any sort) who points out the ludicrous. Its lessons aren’t gentle; they are given with a small mallet, soundly applied to the side of my head every time I start getting weepy, reminding me that the things I have to cry about are perhaps not as sad, or at least there are causes more worthy of tears, and that really, I should look at everything happening in my life with more detached amusement than I presently am.
I’ve been telling the shoulder angel to go hang, and wallowing in my sadness.
Tomorrow is my birthday. I should be wished a happy one.
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