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Thirty-Five: Lost in the Masquerade

| Aspergers Girls

Okay. Day thirty-five and I’ve finally doused my fire of vanity! Yes, I’ve donned my reading glasses, and zoomed in on the font on my computer screen. Maybe I won’t have a raging headache today. What I goof-head I am. I can actually read the words I’m typing now, without squinting.

This morning, I have a lot of deep, philosophical jargon pinging around in Sir Brain. LV is in her pleated secretarial skirt, pacing about, taking notes, while wearing her studious glasses and practical shoes; (you might want to press my lingo button).

I was holding out for Crazy Frog this morning, but I think he is still away with the fairies, which leaves Little Me pretty much holding down the fort. Which is a bit scary, as this new form of thought has been emerging that I cannot quite pinpoint, but that seems liken to a black-caped, masculine-feminine entity, that hides in the dark behind trees, wears a mask, and carries various weapons of Sir-Brain destruction.

She’s more of a female but with a tomboy attitude. She despises feminine aspects in all forms, but yet finds herself a female. A difficult position to be in, I imagine. Anyhow she’s lurking somewhere within, and doesn’t have a lot of beneficial, high-energy words to offer me or other individuals. I imagine she is hurting somewhere deep, deep inside of her being, but that most people would try to bomb her before giving her the time of day. I can’t blame her for hiding. As I fear her myself, and wish to destroy her. Even as she whispers, “I am your teacher.”

I don’t have a name for her, but I think she’s the aspect of me that is responsible for explosive negative thoughts, that send me stumbling down the hole of self-destruction—the one who tells me I’m stupid for writing a blog, for exposing myself to the dangers of anything and anyone outside myself, and for thinking I have anything of substance to offer anyone. She is the barrier in the road, the stop guard with the automatic weapon that warns me to get out of my vehicle and stop moving, or she’ll shoot. I don’t know what she has to gain from acting the way she does. But there must be some motive.

She was with me most of the day yesterday. To the point I didn’t feel I had my footing in reality anymore. She was satisfied with the amount of time I’d been hiding in the house, refusing the act of even going to the grocery store or of taking a walk with my dog.

She isn’t depression. Depression doesn’t feel like an entity. Depression feels like a mass of fog that settles down upon me and leaves me temporarily disoriented and blinded, momentarily stunted in my ability to move.

No, she, this entity, that I shall name Phantom Eknow (eee-no)—for Entity unKnown—is definitely more than a feeling or fog. She is there somewhere, always waiting and watching, even in my happiest moments. She’s been there since I was a little girl. I remember laughing in my youth, and enjoying my day, while all the while wondering when the pain would resurface, the misery, the fear.

It is an odd sensation, talking about her with anyone. Especially as she is surfacing just as I am writing these words. I almost feel shameful, but not entirely shameful, because I’m holding out thinking someone will understand, and maybe be able to see their dark-caped entity, too.  That makes this seem worthwhile, this confession and sharing of sorts, the knowing that I am reaching out from this small place in which I live and breathing words into another human being in hopes of contact, connection, and shared understanding.

Part of the human isolation happening in the world right now is because of the fear of sharing our whole selves. So much is fear-based, that the very thought of being anyone but who someone else wants an individual to be is paralyzing the masses. So many are looking for a leader, a guide, a way, the answer, without taking the time to go within.

The fact that I almost feel shamed in sharing a darker element of myself is proof enough for me that a real oppression of authenticity exists. There seems to be two polar extremes in our world; all I have to do is tune into a reality show; which I don’t do, to view the extremes. There are always the crazed people doing terribly disturbing acts or the fake people dressed in garbs imitating idols.  It appears, many are immolating their inner being and light out of a fear of not being seen. When in actuality, the representation they are showing other beings is not a clear representation of who they are to begin with.

I wonder how many of us have PHANTOMS that we hide? Phantoms that are all caps, all capital letters, lurching inside, that we go on pretending aren’t there. I wonder if we brought them into the light and listened, what we would learn. Here is my Phantom. Here she is. Here I offer, to you, Phantom: the substance of what some people label my imperfections.

Why is it so many are trapped in this game of showing all their high cards, in hopes of recognition, while burying all their low cards in the dirt? What is it that makes a person trust another when they show their high cards, but makes them want to run away when exposed to the low cards? To me, the trust is found in showing what is hidden, not sharing what has been shared a thousand-times over. If I dig up everything and expose what was once hidden in the darkness, then what is left to fear in me? What is left for others to fear? If I am first and foremost authentic and genuine, and have nothing left hidden, then where can fear hide?

There is nothing to fear in being me, but this fear would like me to think so. The fear would like me to fret the plausible pains of exposing my true self, so that the fear can perpetuate its very own existence.

So many people talk about change. So many point fingers and blame. Yet, so many forget to look within—to take out the Phantom, to take out the power, to sit with the fear-based entity and listen to his or her story.

No wonder, that to me, and many others, the world often appears one giant masquerade ball—with the bug-filled wigs, restrictive corsets, and elaborate masks. For that is what the world is, at times, the majority seemingly set out in a dance of deception, where their true fear remains buried, and the pretend, disguised entity continues to twirl round and round.

I imagine a ball without the masks, where I am spinning with my phantom, twirling and twirling, and with each turn decreasing Phantom in size, until she becomes so small and obsolete that she returns happily into the unknown from whence she came. I imagine an endless room full of people spinning with their Phantom, until we are all left without a partner, and have no choice but to join hands together, and at last truly dance.

* I have to laugh, my original post (dyslexia) said Lost in the Mascaraed—which means lost in the eye makeup. Crazy Frog returns!

This Masquerade – George Benson

Are we really happy here
With this lonely game we play
Looking for words to say?
Searching
But not finding understanding anyway
We’re lost in a mas–masquerade

Both afraid to say
We’re just too far away
From being close together from the start
We tried to talk it over
But the words got in the way
We’re lost inside this lonely game we play

Thoughts of leaving disappear
Ev’ry time I see your eyes
No matter how hard I try
To understand the reasons
That we carry on this way
We’re lost in this masquerade

Both afraid to say
We’re just too far away
From being close together from the start
We tried to talk it over
But the words got in the way
We’re lost inside this lonely game we play

Thoughts of leaving disappear
Ev’ry time I see your eyes
No matter how hard I try
To understand the reasons
That we carry on this way
We’re lost in this masquerade

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T8eXCdjdSHE&feature=related

Thirty-Two: Myttin da!

| Aspergers Girls

Attention folks. I’m using my teacher voice here, and then I will be checking for understanding, and administrating a pop quiz. If you have not read many prior posts, you might want to press the LINGO BUTTON. Repeat back what I said, to avoid further confusion. Thank you and onward!

Side Note: I will be venturing deeper into the realm of my Aspie mind and touching base on more serious issues soon (as in someday), but at the moment, Crazy Frog is buffering me from the insanity that has surrounded me in the last few weeks. So, stay with, if you can, until Crazy Frog retreats some, and we can get down to more serious business. Or not.

I figure one medium-sized chocolate-chip cookie (130 calories of gooey, pure heaven), that I devoured at 5:00 in the evening yesterday, is equal to the loss of thirty-five minutes of sleep.  I had three cookies. Plus my earplugs are defective; that, or my husband, having returned from his leisure business trip, picked up a multiple-of-two on his visit to Arizona, and attached said multiple to his snore factor. Regardless, I couldn’t sleep last night.

And I had chocolate-induced dreams, where I think, if I remember correctly, I was some sort of Star Trek Borg (cybernetically enhanced beings who assimilate other races into their group and devour everything in their path) hooked up to the genius-stream of the all-knowing Google God.

My husband’s snoring sound ZZZ-Zzzz-ZZzzz-hn-oink-GGggoofffh-Ppwwbhww- zZZzzzZZ was the source of the Borg’s power. Right now LV theorizes she can use Borg and Star Trek as search engine terms for this blog, and pick up some more traffic. Attract people to the Geek Posse (Lingo), like those cool characters from The Big Bang Theory television show. Currently, the Big Bang Theory is LV’s and Sir Brain’s salivating-worthy fascination.

Did I mention it’s 5:00 in the morning! I’m thinking Sir Brain is up because of the upcoming IEP meeting (Individual Education Plan) for my middle son at his school this afternoon; that and the fact that LV had this running dialogue (hamping) about our life-forces dependency on my internal organs, and how at any second our heart could decide to give up, or even explode. Sir Brain wasn’t totally freaked out, until LV added the whole aneurism (brain explosion) probability to the equation. That’s when Sir Brain packed two rectangular-1950’s-style suitcases and stood up on his toothpicks legs and said, “I’m out of here.” Until LV explained that he was the brain and couldn’t leave. Which bothered Sir Brain to no end, as he didn’t understand how he wasn’t a separate entity beyond a body organ. LV and Sir Brain are still debating on that one.

I wrestled with the thought of staying in bed, until LV brought me back on the hamster-wheel, and reviewed repeatedly, (think copy machine spitting out 1000 copies), the fact that I didn’t show up to my afternoon college course yesterday.

Thus, I rose with puffy, slit-eyes, appearing as if I’d been born and raised on a planet without sunlight. I mounted the stairs, walking like a zombie, while listening to LV chatter it up, in her California, valley-girl dialect, about how I don’t have to be from another planet, because I live in a little town in Washington State, which is primarily absent of sunlight.

And now I’m here typing, while LV goes over with Sir Brain, (who is frantic about exploding), about how yesterday was the first day in my (count them) 7.5 years of college that I missed a class. I haven’t missed a class (not big into rule breaking), since that time I was a freshman and broke down in front of the professor babbling and bawling like a Fool (picturing tarot card), because I needed to go to my beloved Nano’s funeral that was two-hundred miles away, and I wouldn’t be back in time for the next week’s class. That was in 1986!

So, understandably, LV and Sir Brain are a wee bit perplexed about me basically playing hooky from school. Although, they are quite aware that we have left the university but can’t withdraw officially yet, because we’re waiting (and waiting) to hear back from the authorities that be, to see if I have to spill the beans about how I was woefully treated, before I can get my tuition, (the equivalent of two-month’s mortgage) reimbursed. I’m thinking it’s not too early for a glass of wine or a horse tranquilizer. What’s your opinion?

I had something I was thinking about typing about when I was tossing in bed this morning, but the thought is beyond me now. Prophet in my Pocket is still in his 18th century pajamas and nightcap, attempting to sleep. LV is in la-la land wanting to travel with Sir Brain and his suitcases off on some tangent. And I’m thinking I’d like to take a ride on Elephant and get the heck out of Dodge. (Which I now know the meaning of, thanks to one of Brain’s prior followings of string.)

Thank my lucky stars. I just ran to the phone and received an automated message: Do to icy roads there will be a two hour late start at school.

Crazy Frog just woke up with a jolt. He’s a morning frog. Wide awake. He arose to tell me he is super excited about going back to sleep. He found a song! Almost three million people have seen it! It’s a perfect video: it’s weird, talks about sleeping, and the guy walks like a borg! The first one Crazy Frog found.

I’m not going to let Crazy Frog edit this prose or rouse me any further, as I’m taking Prophet in my Pocket’s cue, and crawling back in bed. “Don’t wake me, I plan on sleeping” (song lyrics). Oh, before I go. One thing that made me laugh this morning, besides the processing of my own brain:

When I was looking up ideas for snore sounds (because I don’t really have a life), I found this article about this lady’s husband who is a chronic snorer. And this novice lady author, she’s rambling on and on, going way off tangent; and then right in the middle of the article she writes, “…and my husband, he’s had lots of wives.” And I stop. Backspace. Reread. Chuckle. Reread again. And pause frozen, completely unable to read the rest of the article, because I’m thinking this chick definitely has Aspergers.

Crazy Frog does how a softer side. He found this. Make Yourself Sleep in 40 Sec. (Don’t show this to children.) Thanks Crazy Frog! You Boob!

Spastic-Colon (my dog) just busted out her doggy-door and is barking at the sunrise. Now she’s back. Must add her to the lingo dictionary, after I get some shut-eye. Which is odd when you think about it, because our eyes never shut—they just get covered in a flap of skin.  Ironically, my alarm clock just went off in the other room. Time to wake up! Myttin da! (That’s Cornish for good morning.)

Thirty-One: Y’all Come Back, Now!

| Aspergers Girls

 

If you missed Day Thirty’s post, it was a doozy (something extraordinary and bazar)! I had to include the definition. My post was extraordinary in that non-boasting way—out of the ordinary for me. Not so much bazar. Did you know Doozy is an Americanism. I am full-on stopping myself from wandering off and researching Americanism, and what words are Americanized; but if you get an itch, I say scratch it!

I always thought doozy came from the word bulldozer, because a bulldozer picks up an extraordinary amount of dirt, and dozer is similar to doozy. I was wrong.

Just last year, I learned that nosey neighbors do not partake in ease-dropping, they eavesdrop. I thought they eased their way into a conversation—that makes so much more sense than standing under the eaves so one can be in close proximity to overhear a conversation. Imagine trying to explain that one word of eavesdrop to a room full of second-language students. I used to teach second-language students. I would fail.  I can’t draw an eave. And don’t get me started on old wives’  tale….seriously? How about my lifelong version: old wise tale. Better, isn’t it?

My mom used to make a celery at her job (salary). I partook in a friendly game of chest (chess), until I was in my early twenties.  My boyfriend at the time found me simply hilarious. Hamburgers were ham-buggers. As in one of my favorite words: bugger-butt—it’s a term of endearment, in my book.

There is actually another human in the world besides me that Googled: when did the word bugger occur.  Oh my, I can’t share the origin here! Probably shouldn’t use it as a term of endearment anymore. No wonder I stopped eating meat. What’s another word for digress? (Laughing.) Digress also means ramble! Who would have known?

Before I so trade-markedly steered off tangent, Day Thirty’s post was the topic. Yesterday afternoon, I was confronted once again with the injustices of the world in regards to the treatment of my son with Aspergers. Pausing.

It’s so hard to write about this, when Crazy Frog is doing the Mexican hat dance in my head.

After the melancholy (but necessity, I might add) of Day Thirty’s post, Crazy Frog is making up in oddity, double-time. He still is trying to figure out where he was when Elephant plunged through. (If you haven’t looked at my lingo, yet. No doubt I’ve lost you. LINGO BUTTON.) There’s an awesome music video on the lingo page

See what I mean: I wrote this line for this post: “My heart was aflame in grief.”

My heart was. It really was. But not now! ‘Cause Crazy Frog is laughing at my words.

This is what Crazy Frog thinks is ridiculous: 

Melancholic Little Me Wrote in reflection of Day Thirty’s post: “As I wrote those words yesterday, a voice rose and spun up from the depths of me like a steel bristle brush. As it moved upwards, the brush swirled round and scraped off all this goop and gunk that had collected and stuck like barnacles to the symbolic-flesh of my very soul. The words excavated, don’t do the experience justice. I don’t know where this new part of me had been hiding, but I reckon she’s a part that was pushed down right about the time I was four years of age. She’s a feisty thing, all done up, like a strong and mighty male elephant, with a silky-sweet interior. She’s the one hiding behind the curtain. “

Here’s where Crazy Frog stepped in to avoid me going into deep emotional, opposite-of-bliss state. Notice how my voice and inflection change: “Anyhow, this voice, she was mighty powerful, and as I think about her I get an odd Southern dialect mixed in with some back-woods cowboy. Crap? Is backwoods cowboy offensive? Oh! It is. In-bred rednecks. Interesting. It’s actually racist; and I didn’t even know. Is it okay to use the words still, since my relatives have the last name McCoy and lived on a farm near the woods with over twelve children? No offense intended to any in-breeds out there. Or to my family. I guess?? I’m getting flashbacks of when I used the term…(omitted) Oops! I reckon I best be stopping myself right there.

Life is hard, when I can’t even get through a paragraph without worrying about burning someone’s britches. Oh, that doesn’t make sense. I used burning britches the wrong way. I give up. I did find a neat article about eavesdropping and its origin, but I can’t include the link, because the poop-head (LV’s two cents; LINGO BUTTON) that wrote the article included some inappropriate jokes at the end. Seems to me that author has a bit of digression issues herself.”

I think that brief description  illustrates nicely the difference between Little Me (melancholic) and Crazy Frog.

And my point? I spent all day thinking about yesterday’s post—the meaning, the release, the seriousness—until I realized a part of me had resurfaced, one I hadn’t connected with in a very long time. So I’m adding Elephant to my lingo list, and letting Crazy Frog teach Elephant how to dance. (Remember he appears as a him but is a girl inside the elephant suit.) Wow! Real life is stranger than fiction.

I think I’ll take Little Old Me and join Crazy Frog and Elephant now, in that dancing. (Tipping my hat.) And  just let the dust settle from yesterday’s post. See what’s left behind in the dirt, after this backwoods cowgirl rides out into the sunset. Buenos noches. Y’all come back, now! You here.

Twenty-Seven: Who Let the Frog Out?

| Aspergers Girls

Don’t be fooled, this post is NOT about dogs or frogs or hamsters!

I tell you it never fails. I sit down to type, and everything I’d planned to say the night before, goes out the window. And mentioning the word window reminds me of the song How Much is that Doggy in the Window. Sir Brain is following that string again—completely off subject. Here’s a funny dog video, then I promise to get back to my post!

 

Okay folks. Looking to get rich? After viewing a dozen Doggy in the Window YouTube videos, I conjecture you can make a million by producing a quality Doggy in the Window quick flick.  Who is with me?

Oh, one more…. You have to blast this one! It will cheer you up! 

 

Last night I was up until one in the morning, again!

I was typing a letter, in that therapeutic fashion, with no intention of giving the letter to the recipients. I was planning on sharing the letter with you. Until I woke up this morning and decided the process of writing was healing enough.

And then I thought (that nasty th word again) to share another letter I wrote—which took about four hours—the letter that I will probably be sending to the dean of the university. It outlines in a professional and factual tone the demeaning words one of my professors said to me after class. I was very much an innocent in the situation, and I offer this fact with sincerity and clarity.  Even would swear on something, which is a ritual I don’t quite understand.

Nonetheless, sometimes there is a discrepancy in my mind, let’s say 99% of the time, and I can see the error of my ways, and how I most definitely contributed to an outcome. On the flipside, I can also recognize when I contribute something for the benefit of someone else. In this situation, with the professor, I was a victim. (Picturing a Salem witch trial and people without health insurance.)

I decided, in the end, not to present either letter, because I began to understand my motives. Something I try to be in touch with quite often: the whys of my words and actions. Which, in and of itself, the continual inner questioning, makes for a circus of self-criticism. Perhaps I shall develop a way to question without the critique. And let you know in the next millennium or so, how that pans out.

In questioning my motives to present the letters, I realized I wanted your empathy. I wanted your comments about how you felt so sorry for me, how outraged you were, how terribly sad and teary-eyed you were after reading my words.

And I thought, is that the vibe I truly desire to put out there: come hither; gather round my fire of sorrow and pity me. Support me. Lift me. Concur. Share in my sufferings. I’m shaking my head and squinting my eyes and mouthing, “No.”

Of course there are times when ranting and venting are therapeutic, and I don’t judge those who need to put the frustration all out there. I would say in the majority of cases, venting on a blog is probably a lot healthier than many alternatives—like having a heart attack or throwing a pan at your husband.

I’ll get through this event fine, just as I always do. I understand, to some extent, that my journey is a continual series of lessons. You know those sitcoms that reach 100 episodes and get duplicated in mass production on to dvd’s. Shows like Friends and Seinfeld; those shows you can always find broadcasting somewhere. In a way, my life lessons are somewhat syndicated, in the sense that my life lessons seem to be the same episodes over and over.

I joke that I’m one of those rascal spirits that stood in front of a board of wise spiritual advisors, before my birth, and presented a grand life plan. I was full of pride and accomplishment.

Upon review of my plan, the advisors all laughed hysterically in unison, proclaiming, “No way. Not approved. Too much learning.”

And me, I stood there, all brave like, with little wobbly knees, (as I image myself quite petite in the other realm), and responded, “Oh. Don’t worry. I can handle it!”

And they raised their brow and shook their heads, before waving me on with a sarcastic tone: “Good luck with that.”

Only, I didn’t understand sarcasm.

Then I figure, the door shut and they all had a good laugh.

The jokes on me! Ha! Ha! Ha! (Please insert a bratty-tone to my laugher.)

When situations get rough, as they often somehow seem to do—The Darn Plan is to blame. Often I stare up (or across, or somewhere) to the powers that be (that I purposely choose not to quantify, to avoid unnecessary defense and questioning from my readers), and say, “You were right. I made a mistake! I take it all back. Change the plan. I can’t take the heat!”

But no one answers. Except sometimes my spastic-colon dog, who thinks I screamed treat!

I think my super radical plan came with a contract, and that I signed off all rights for alterations after I took human form. Does anyone know of a life contract lawyer?

The good news is I’m about 200 times stronger than I was forty years ago. Because I figure I’ve been challenged by significant circumstances at least four to five times a year and that I gain one point for each challenge I overcome, which puts me somewhere between the vicinity of 160 and 200 growth points. (Multiplied 40 years by 4 or 5.) Just call me spitfire! ? Did you know that spitfire means: Highly emotional. Someone that is wild and free, without a care in the world. Considered strong and emotionally spiritually. Someone’s whose angry words are like fiery ice. A high-spirited out spoken female. Usually loud, lusty, lovely and pretty and untouchable. Typically a red head. ?

Okay, then, so I’m not a spitfire, but my alter ego is! And that weenie, who stood up to the board of advisors and thought this life was a manageable plan, was certainly, if not a spitfire, out of her mind.  (Which I’m thinking now is very accurate, because if she didn’t have a body—she would be out of her mind! I love the way I think. I really do. I’m a laugh a minute. There’s never a dull moment with LV (little voice in my head), Sir Brain (squishy ball), and Prophet in my Pocket.

I’m thinking….lol

…I’m planning on starting a dictionary for my blog, for inexperienced new readers, so I don’t need to keep explaining LV, Sir Brain, and Prophet in my Pocket. And, since I’m assuming, more characters in this fictional-like story of my life, will continue to surface, I ought to start the dictionary now, rather than later.

I want to include the word hamping.

Hamping is what I’m calling the loops that go on in my mind. Where I have a repetitive thought that I can’t dispel. You understand, I think…just imagine those times you’re on the couch and all you can hear is the chocolate calling you from across the room. “Just one more piece. Just one. What harm can it do? I deserve a little pleasure in my life. Gosh darn it, I’m getting myself a piece of chocolate.” And then you sit back down, after devouring half the bar, and all you can think about is the other half you placed up high on the top shelf so you couldn’t reach it without a lot of effort. And you’re wondering where you put the stepladder.

That’s hamping. I call it hamping, because I imagine a cute fuzzy hamster.  If I’m going to have repetitive thoughts, I might as well be adorable while partaking in the process. The hamster is in a cage on a wheel spinning round and round. He can’t help his little old self. Can’t get off, even though he knows he’s going nowhere and that the cat thinks he looks really stupid (and delicious).

Tomorrow I’d like to be able to post all these other stories I’ve been savoring. I have a whole list (in my head), such as my ghost encounter; the premonition of my childhood dog dying; the terrors of college. Wow! Now that I’m listing them all out, I’m thinking I savor the doom and gloom. Melancholic at it’s best!

Well folks, I’m off to go work on the Everyday Aspergers Dictionary now. Or hunt for chocolate. Probably chocolate. LV, Sir Brain, and Prophet are still dancing to Who Let the Frog Out!  As I listened to the song ten times while editing.  Oh! I just found a new character:  Crazy Frog—he’s the one that keeps me laughing.

* You can YouTube “Crazy Frog” for more upbeat music.

Day Twenty-Six: Patch Freak Makes Life Change!

| Aspergers Girls

 

I’m going to attempt to use humor to explain a major life altering decision.

I’m back.

Bet you didn’t know I was gone.

I totally (California born and raised) slipped out of focus and got sidetracked for an hour’s time about the origin of the word humor. Why? Because I used the word humor in a sentence, Silly. And that led Brain away, like a string of yarn does for a kitten. This morning Brain’s string began at etymology: the origin or development of a word, affix, phrase, etc., and the string ended with black bile. Yucko-mania!

If Brain hadn’t allowed for a detour into Reasoning Forest, and instead he/she had left me in the moment, I fear I would be profusely apologizing for the spattering of snot and tears all over the computer screen. Yes, remarkably indeed, Brain returned me to an emotional state of equilibrium, with one quick, and rather boring, sidetrack.

And I have good news. When Brain examined the root origin of humor, which included words like phlegm, LV (little voice in my head) found us a new patch for our sash! Our lovely patch Melancholic is one of the four temperaments, the others being: Sanguine, Choleric, and Phlegmatic.

 

It is black in color, the Melancholic patch, and now firmly sewn on to LV’s slash, amongst her numerous other merit badges of distinction. She tore off the high-maintenance patch to make room for the new one. The patch of Melancholic represents the following traits: sensitive, intuitive, self-conscious, easily embarrassed, easily hurt, introspective, sentimental, moody, likes to be alone, empathetic, artistic, fussy and perfectionistic, deep, prone to depression, avarice, and gluttony!

Sidetrack: (Brain left again, but only for a brief stretch. He/She had to know the origin of origin. Call him/her crazy. I do. At first I was afraid that there was no origin of origin. Fear gripped, an anguish surfacing from the depths of Grendel’s mire: What if there is no origin of origin? Don’t panic. Luckily there is. The original meaning of origin is to rise, become visible, or from beginning source. I can live with that. I just wish the online etymology dictionary had the real origin of the universe. Which by definition would be the beginning source of the universe. Sadly, the definition only reads:  the cosmos, whole, and turned into one. No real origin there.)

The Melancholic patch is an improvement over some of the qualities listed on the other temperament patches, such as: hedonism (which is an ugly word to begin with), impetuous, prone to hypocrisy, and prone to sloth. Prone to sloth, makes me giggle. To learn more you can click here

I think from now on, when I’m in an Aspie funk, unable to make a decision, on overload, and/or plain overwhelmed with my brain, I will say: “I am prone to sloth, presently exhibiting attributes of the phlegmatic temperament.” Just warning you ahead of time.

Concerning the brief mentioning of my life altering decision, I was a daredevil speed racer in my mind for three hours straight last night, between the convenient hours of 11:00 pm and 2:00 am. Riding a cranked-up dirt bike up and around turn tunnels and across perilous ramps. LV had a lot of processing to do. And when I woke up, I endured two more hours. I did not know it was humanly possible to pour gallons of tears out of my tear ducts; but then again LV is sporting that hip new Melancholic patch.

The good news is the tears have cleared and hope has set in. There’s a seedling sprouting at this very moment at the belly of my spirit and stretching to the open sky.

What happened? You query, so sympathetically, (or not). Well…I took a whirl at taking care of Brain, LV, and Me, and got the Heck Out of Dodge! (Brain notes: Get the hell out of Dodge is in reference to Dodge City, Kansas, a favored location for westerns in the mid 20th century. Most notably, the saying was made infamous by the TV series Gunsmoke). And that’s the only reason my husband tolerates me–because I’m full of…interesting facts!

Sorry, about that. Suspense building. Drum roll. Shying away. Just going to splash it out in one big wave:

I got the Heck out of the University that I was attending for my Masters Degree in Counseling.

Kaput! We Gone!

There are a few distinct patches I’d like to stick on that subject, but I won’t.

For now, I’ll let Brain be, and LV rest, and Me, Little Sweet Me, I think I’ll treat her to an overdue retreat. Pardon me now, as I venture into my Phlegmatic Zone, and contemplate how to proceed through the glory of a new opened door.

Oh, Crap. Brain wants to explore truckers’ lingo! And LV is shouting, “Yes!”   The Gods truly must be crazy. I like the words: Gator Guts, Seat Cover, and Suds and Muds…you know you’re curious. Click  Truckers’ Slang Words or check out the video below:

Below You Can Read: All About the Origin of Humor, By Sir Brain  

 

Humor is Latin in origin and first meant liquid. The word represented moisture, especially the moisture of fluid of animal bodies, such as lymph.

Around 460 B.C. Hippocrates noticed that blood removed from the body separated into four parts: clear red, yellowish liquid that rises to the surface, dark liquid that settles at the bottom, and a whitish liquid. He and his students developed a theory based on Hipporcrates’ observations. Later the theory was expounded upon. Theorists believed mental health was a matter of a good balance of the four liquids (humors). The word humor eventually became connected with someone’s temporary state of mind. Humor’s meaning of amusement did not occur until the 1600’s.

The theory of bodily humors holds that each person produces four humors but that a preponderance of one relative to the others brings on sickness.  Fluid was thought to be part of the makeup of the body, and temperament, (meaning mixture), was determined by the proportions of four fluids (humors): blood, phlegm, bile, and black bile.

A predominance of blood, associated with the liver, equates to an optimistic and sanguine (confident) temperament. Sanguine is rooted in the original definition of ruddy or blood red face.

A predominance of yellow bile, associated with the spleen, equates to being choleric (short-tempered). Too much yellow bile and one viewed the world through a bilious eye. Choleric is rooted in the Greek khole, meaning bile.

A predominance of black bile, associated with the gall bladder, equate to a melancholic (pensively sad) temperament. From the Greek melas (black) and khole bile. Melancholia means too much black bile.

A predominance of Phlegm, associated with the lungs and brain, equates to being phlegmatic (slow and unexcitable).

Any imbalance of these humors made a person unwell and perhaps eccentric. Through the passing of time humor took on the meaning of oddness.

Fasting is thought to bring humors into balance. Humorism postulates that each person is born with a basic temperament.

You can find more information about the origin of humor here: In MY BRAIN!