Weathering the Blues

I'm trying to beat the winter bleakness that is central NY. So far, the grimness of winter and all that accompanies it (dirty pants, dirty streets, wet cars, freezing temps, icicles threatening to kill you the moment you walk out the door, and relentless (annoying?) snowfall) appear to be winning. In other words, I'm blue. Very blue. Super blue. Bluer than the color blue. Blue dammit. Oh sure, I can tell myself that the fucking groundhog saw his shadow indicating the early arrival of Spring, but can a bucktoothed rodent named Phil really pull me from the grips of winter sadness? Can it melt my frigid, icy, mood that grips me from morning 'til night? I could also order one of those razzle dazzle lights that will emulate natural sunlight (without the cancer causing agents), but I'm so fucking sick of winter and everything associated with it, I can't even do that small task. Oh, I should recall my motto: laugh, love, fuck, and drink liquor. Well, I have no problem with the drinking aspect (though I prefer a good red to the hard stuff), which is probably part of the problem. Le'ts break this motto down for fun . . .

1. Laugh: Over what? I suppose TV has served some of it's entertainment puposes. Idol is fuck all funny. And, Saturday Night Live has been having its moments. Hard to laugh about the country though. We are headed to war with Iran and the stupid ass media continues to spew more idiocy from the "senior" administration officials. Have we learned nothing?

2. Love: I've been doing more hatin than lovin lately. Must be the scorpion mixed with the winter that has created this awful brew. I do have some writing pressure breathing down my neck which makes loving anything fairly difficult. I love the fam. I love the cats. I love the dog--but found this weekend a little difficult to bear. He's also fallen prey to the winter blues or what I like to call: "Getting Fat in February" because I do LOVE to eat. Caught up in a moment of wild, canine frenzy, our beloved hound scoped out some used tampons (oh yeah, the period does nothing to uplift my spirits) and ATE them. He must have consumed 4 total (3 regular and one super). Smith got no love from me. I wanted to photograph a turd with a tampon string coming out the end, but found it simply too distasteful, even for this rather nasty entry. He shit a Playtex Multipack all weekend. Dumb dogs.
For all those who are bitter about romantic love, I suggest listening to the latest gem from Lucinda Williams: West Bitter, Raw, Obsessed. I enjoy it more each time I hear it . . .

3. Fuck: None of your business. But I aint complaining.

4. Drink Liquor (wine): We have resorted to buying wine by the case and I think we should double the order. At least til Spring arrives. Cheers mothafucka. I'm out.