I now know who thrives in the relentlessly chilly, wet New England this town has become. I almost tripped over this guy on my sidewalk: Positively fat and thriving in slug splendor, a doubtless happy citzen of what has become the land of no sun.

I spent the weekend foolishly. Foolishly in a funk. Unsocial, make that anti-social, too much inside my own head, questioning every aspect of my life. Maybe just every now and again you got to wallow in the blues, but I’m beginning to bore myself. Not to mention, I honestly know some folks who merit much more some honest to god blues. Mine is transient and self-indulgent, while some people close to me are bitching less about so much more. Shallow and moody, yep, I’m a true humanitarian.

Perversely, because I enjoy when we are living in parallel (if not together, what with geography and all), I was kind of pleased that M. seemed a tad grumpy this weekend as well. He was ranting in relation to the upcoming election that Democrats who acted without hope of unseating the prez were damning themselves and deserving of what they get. Without hope, he believes, why try, why bother, why live? He’s not usually the one ranting for folks to die. I hope the worst of me hasn’t rubbed off on the poor guy.

I for one did what I could for the cause, happily wearing my new T-shirt to the mall to buy some stuff at Radioshack. I had previously been happy and proud that my hair is now of a length suitable to demurely hide my decolletage in Lady Godiva style: (Mostly, I’m happy and proud, because I never had long hair during the rest of my life. A chronic gum-chewer with a busy, harried mom equaled permanent pixie cut or maybe the occasional bob.) Anyway, sadly, the long hair obscures the power of the fuck Bush message. Ah, see, another pointless thing for me to be irrationally sad about. Will the self pity ever end?