Oh, my dear Mr. Anonymous, we’ve had some times, haven’t we? Now, though, they must come to an end. Consider this my notice to move out of your head. Sure, living there rent-free has its advantages, but I long for something else.
I’m doing this for you, Mr. Anonymous, and for your health, because stewing over perceived slights can cause too many problems that could land you in the hospital. Believe me, strokes, complications from ulcers, or worse are no fun.
You’re not the only one who seems to be afflicted with people living rent-free in your head. Our liberal-leaning columnist John Brummett seems to have taken up residence in quite a few heads around here, as has columnist and critic Philip Martin. Right-leaning columnist Bradley Gitz also has his share of brain landlords.
Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama should be getting their mail at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave., considering how much of the president’s attention they monopolize just by their mere existence. (A reminder for the president: They’re not in the White House, so perhaps you should focus on policy rather than animosity/jealousy toward them. The constant “they did it too” drumbeat—especially when they didn’t—just makes you look guilty and annoys those of us who have to wade through long-debunked tales.)
James Comey, in addition to occupying space in Donald Trump’s head, is doing the same with Hillary Clinton, bunking with that vast right-wing conspiracy. And both Hillary and Bill are longtime residents of far too many people’s heads to be rationally explained (if I see one more debunked uranium or murder allegation …). I’ve lived in Arkansas my whole life and have never understood the level of animosity toward all things Clinton. No, I wouldn’t want to hang out with the Clintons for more than a few minutes, but I’m certainly not in the spittle-spewing irrational hatred sphere.
Slight obsessions are fine as long as you don’t find yourself stuck on something that you can’t let go. I’m a little obsessed with the president’s tweets, mostly because I can’t believe the things he says that are clearly wrong (such as the media wanting him to stop tweeting; nope, that’s his lawyers and staff), and because the responses are often hilarious. And that’s the difference: I can laugh at it and disconnect from it. I don’t stew over it because that would have no effect; making a joke out of it is much healthier. I’m a worrier by nature, so having such a strategy is necessary for sanity. Such that my sanity is some days.
The real estate in my head is much better occupied with family, friends, cats, work, and chocolate. Why would I want to lease it to someone I couldn’t spend a least a few minutes with without wanting to throttle that person?
When an obsession takes such a deep hold over you that you can’t function normally or you are so consumed by something someone said that you can’t let it go for months (like you, Mr. Anonymous, apparently still peeved over a column of nearly three months ago), action must be taken lest you end up babbling in the corner, pouring cold oatmeal on your head.
And not the tasty stuff with fruit and spices. The goopy, bland stuff that could double as wallpaper glue. No sugar, no butter … just goop.
Really, Mr. Anonymous, I’m not sure why you want to assign yourself victimhood, or how I might have wronged you … other than existing, that is, and my mama makes no apologies for that. But yeah, I know, it’s all the rage now to take offense at everything that doesn’t fit inside one’s own little bubble and to cast blame everywhere but where it belongs. And grudges? Like fine wine, they just get better with age (or so I’m told … I don’t drink, so I don’t know about that). Except they don’t.
Wallowing in resentment, especially when it’s because of someone you don’t personally know, is a recipe for unhappiness. As Queen Elsa sang, “Let it go.” Live in reality. Don’t dwell on what you can’t change. Go outside and play in the rain. Do something other than let the idea of someone not agreeing with you fester.
I know, I know … real life isn’t as much fun, especially when people might expect you to step out from behind your anonymity and stand behind your words.
Speaking of words, dear Mr. Anonymous, thank you for reminding me of the darling epithet you assigned me some months ago. Every woman just loves to be called that, especially by some random coward (hey, if you gave your name it might be different … but that would be brave).
Allow me to not apologize on behalf of my gender for having an opinion, being educated, having a job in the media or anywhere else, having a sense of humor, and anything else that might offend you.
And, Mr. Anonymous, if I am indeed a “female dog,” as you suggested, I’ll pick the dog, if you don’t mind: Audi Martin. She’s small but mighty, funny, doesn’t let much of anything bother her, and she’s plum adorable.
More people could stand to learn from her.
One more piece of parting advice, Mr. Anonymous: Hang out a “No vacancy” sign.
Your mood will be much improved if you don’t try to refill that spot in your head.
Since we’re talking about letting things go today (and because my new computer hasn’t yet arrived), I’ll again delay Twitter Burns. And yep, the big man-baby’s kind of gone off the rails, so there will be a lot to unpack when I do get to it. I’m thinking I may just make it a separate stand-alone post each week or so. Thoughts?
And since we’re ignoring the D.C. shenanigans for the moment, let’s focus on something much more important: CATS!
No, I’m still not ready for another furbaby, and it may not be till November or December that I can even consider it. When you’ve had someone like Luke in your life, it’s hard to get past. A friend who lost his Shih Tzu (Giz was Luke’s best friend) two years ago is finally ready to look for a new dog, but it’s still tough.
Regardless, Tuesday was International Cat Day, and we should all give these fluffy balls of fun the attention they so desperately crave (even if they won’t admit it).