That was mean. I’m sorry.
There is no good news. It was total click-bait.
But, see how
desperate eager we are to hear of some rosy communique. Some glowing event that’s not glowing from nuclear fallout. Some joyous happening that might lift our spirits, ease our constricted chests, remind us that our existence is not all dismal and disgusting. Something happy. We all crave the tiniest smidgen of glee so much that we cling to the nearest lamppost, its light golden in the fog.
“Good News,” he said. What wonders might now unfold? Wonders indeed. Just more bullshit, I’m afraid.
Epicurus would knit his brow and scold us for such a negative mindset. “Drink a beer, smoke a smoke, dance a dance and laugh a laugh while you still have breath.”
Seneca, oh Seneca, he would remind us that neither the highs nor the lows should we cling to. Keep an even keel, steady as she goes, yield, nay to the joys nor the misery.
But how long can we languish in such dejection? The “blues” seem not so much a melancholy tune that we bob our heads to, but a theme we now lift as our standard, its gloomy tail hanging listless in the sallow breeze. I wonder…
Would there be increased teenage suicide if children knew that the adults they trusted had absolutely no idea what they were doing?
“Mom, Dad, what were you thinking?”
“That’s the problem, honey, we weren’t.”
“Yeah, sweetums, we’re just as lost as you are.”
And then there’s Tsar Bomba, I mean Czar Putin. “What the hell, dude? Your 19th Century Imperialistic designs on the world are like so out of touch.” And we thought the Orange Dumbass was problematic…
Hoping you’re well and Jessie is well’er,
Here are some pretty flowers.