Anxiety makes me feel better. It’s an ice-cold hug from an inconstant lover. It’s a little slice of control in my crazy world. It’s just…my way of doing things.
I spent much of yesterday worried sick. The least of my problems was that the iron might have been left on. If the iron was on, it was also probably face down on the rug. Meaning it was burning the rug. And then my entire sale rack wardrobe would go up in flames.
And now follow the bouncing ball, chain reaction freakout: If I don’t have clothes, I can’t go to work. And if I can’t go to work, I can’t pay off my student loan. Can the repo men take my college degree? And what if I can’t pay rent? Not that it matters, as I’d be living inside a burned-out hulk of an apartment with winter on the way.
Maybe I should become a survivalist. I could live in a shack and grow my own food. There’s the ticket. But then I wouldn’t have friends. Unless I could get my friends to come live in my shack, so we could be our own little commune. But then we would have to sell those stupid, “Stop Bitching…Start a Revolution” t-shirts. Then I would wonder what’s so revolutionary about 100% cotton, and if selling t-shirts is just a more commercial way of bitching. Then the universe would implode from the paradox, and we would all die horribly explosive deaths.
So what have I learned? Easy. No more cheese dip before bed.
In the comments, tell me what you worry about.