Monkey Pox

I seem to have recovered from my existential crisis-and I find myself going from the frying pan straight into the fire. When I moved into this property eight years ago (eight years. Oh my! Purgatory has lasted so long!), I was told that this was a small area for disabled people. Gentamicin disabled me; I naturally assumed that everyone else was physically disabled.

What? Hell, no!  More than a few of these people are completely bonkers. A few-okay, a lot- possibly never had marbles to lose. I sometimes feel like I'm qualified to be a special needs teacher. Or a psychologist. Or both.

My neighbor is called Lil. Her name is really Elizabeth, just like about 98% of the population (plus the guys, of course). And wherever I am, she sees me coming in, and going out. Just what I need: a geriatric female stalker. She always pounces to deliver bad news, most of which she gets by reading The Sun. It's a tabloid rag, read by most of the idiot population, and written (if you could call it that) by a bunch of functionally illiterate, pig ignorant, brain dead racist hacks. And the vast number of idiots who actually read it believe that everything printed in The Sun must be true. Think the UK's answer to the National Enquirer. Of course, Elvis, Michael Jackson and Marilyn Monroe are all really alive.

They're all together, line dancing in Venezuela (maybe I shouldn't say that. It might be tomorrow's headline).

Lil was shrieking recently over the Sun's article about-you guessed it:monkey pox. Highly contagious, it originated in Africa. Now wait for it:

Lil has the hots for two carers who work for one of her neighbors. They are half her age, m arried Iwith children, and both come from Africa. What if they've got it? What if they brought it with them? I tried so hard not to laugh. And failed. She was panicking so much, I've never seen her move so fast.

So I consulted the CNN news feed-yes, there is monkey pox in the UK, no, it's nothing to worry about, and I couldn't resist telling her to wear gloves and a mask when she's trying it on with them.

I told you: crazies! Monkey pox my little New York Presbyterian ass...

My new buzzword for bullshit: monkey pox.

Moaning Minnie and the Whingers

That would make a good name for a pop group-not as catchy as, say, Bob Marley and the Wailers, but the best I can come up with at the moment.

To explain to anyone who is new to this blog: moaning minnies, in this country, are people who complain a lot (moan). Whingeing (whinge rhymes with hinge, as in door hinge) means essentially the same thing. But, in the interests of being absolutely not politically correct, I decided to make some changes.

Moaning minnies are female. Think Minnie Mouse. Female. Exactly. Whingeing Willies are male. I've already told you about Wee Willies: I haven't done a poll to see the length and width of willies, but from all the women I know, British males are very small. Some are so small they're the size of peanuts. And less functional, too. And all they do is complain (if you had a tiny willy, you'd complain, too).

You can tell what I've been doing while I haven't been online: mostly moaning. I took this long to get back because-well, it is harder for me once I have taken time off. I decided to call it a "sabbatical". I took a lengthy sabbatical from blogging, journalling (which I did every night), emails, anything that didn't involve going to the docs for check-ups. The longer I stayed away, the more difficult it became to get back to normal life.

If I'm going to be honest about it: it wasn't a sabbatical. It was a huge bite in the ass from the black dog, and I've been really depressed since the last time I wrote. I wasn't suicidal (homicidal, maybe, but never suicidal). I didn't need any kind of medication. I had to get myself out of the really difficult downer I was on. I figured that I got myself into it, so I had to get myself out of it. And moaning didn't help-so I did my best to stay away from the moaners and the whingers. Easier said than done: it seems that just about everyone is either a moaner or a whinger. Or both.

What did I do? How do you get out of a depression once it takes hold? It was a really big bite-and the last time I was this depressed was when I got the cancer diagnosis five years ago. So - I mostly sat. Cried. Walked a lot. I need to walk every day anyway, because if I don't I will revert back to the worst of the balance problems I had before. So walking helped. I like to think that I got stronger. I certainly got more opinionated. Brexit this, Brexit that-oh, screw Brexit, I just can't be bothered any more! Do I get into political arguments like I did before? No, I don't. I've reached saturation point, where I see what's going on in the world (a scumbag in the White House! Earthquakes, tsunamis, terrorist attacks, weapons in this country like I've not seen in all the years I've lived here...a dirtbag voted into the Supreme Court...the racist anti-Semitic party ready to take over the country - that's the Labour Party for you!). The world hasn't just gone to hell in a handbasket. The world has turned to shit.

No wonder I got depressed. But I also realize that there is nothing I can do to change things; all I can do is try to keep a positive attitude, keep making jokes (as if I would ever stop), put one foot in front of the other (trying not to fall over), and keep my head down. Everything works its way out in the end. Hopefully.

Walking helps tremendously-and it's free. No gym bills, no young women in full make-up and the latest gym gear...did you ever notice how these women never sweat? They wear the latest and tightest workout gear, wear full make-up, have perfect hair-and they never sweat. Of course, they don't work out, either. They seem to spend a lot of time checking out the guys (most of whom are really, really ugly).

It must be a mid-life thing: we get to a certain age, and we go to the gym to work out and get stronger, we don't even really look (not for long, anyway. Too depressing) at anyone else, and the harder we work, the sweatier we become. I get home and think, whoa, what a workout, good for me-and then I usually can't move for two days, and then it starts all over again. At least I don't watch daytime tv instead. If you really want to get depressed, watch daytime television. It's gross.

Well, there we are, I'm back on track. I got out of my depression, although I can tell you one thing: middle age really sucks.