A recent conversation...
Me: "I heard that this cancer can cause depression, and that I should be open to speaking with a mental health professional."
Barb: "Quite so."
Me: "But I have NO IDEA what I'd say to a depressed mental health professional!"
The thing is, I don't get depressed, or frustrated. Sure, I can't sleep for the pain, and yeah, five steps and I'm out of breath, but so what?
Last time I went to my (sadly deceased) doctor...
Doc: "You must be depressed."
Doc: "I'll prescribe some antidepressants."
Me: "I don't need 'em."
Doc: "I'll give you some samples."
Me: "I'm not depressed."
And then he left, and the nurse came in
with a prescription, and samples.
So, I don't know. I should be sad, personally and existentially, and I am not.
I'm living the dream.
So, here, tongue mostly in cheek... mostly...
I expect you'll be impressed
with sterling qualities I've got,
like, I'm supposed to be depressed,
but, dude, I'm truly not.
It's not that I'm superior
(that is, of course, a given),
and not by deep ulterior
motive is my virtue driven.
It's just that I'm a happy bloke
(or, a drongo, that's your call)
to whom all life is but a joke,
and the final curtain call
will be a spinning swirling jig
with two Heelers and a pig.
Music from Cat Stevens, with Another Saturday Night.
The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is ROAD. Tough one!
This is the path I'm taking,
but not the one I chose;
still, I am not forsaken,
and my sore heart still knows
that through the darkness of the night,
and through the stormy day,
I can depend on Holy Might
to guide my twisting way.
And so, my friend, I'll skip along,
not fear to stub a toe;
I need not be hard and strong
for I now truly know
that this here is my own Green Mile,
and I'll walk with God in style.
Here's Barb wearing her anniversary present. Stylish, yes?
The only thing that makes Sylvia sad is lack of ice cream.