Moose in the Kitchen

I’m feeling funky. Less James Brown funky, more Lashed to the Mast of a Sinking Ship funky. Only without the philosophical revelations that I assume come in the goody bag of “you’re about to die now don’t you wish you had punched Billy Prescott in the third grade when he stole your twinkie instead of totally caving and fulfilling all playground expectations of a girl in a frilly pink dress.”

For my mother, who’s even now trying to deduce who Billy Prescott is, that was an invented scenario. Frilly pink dress: yes. Caving: yes. Twinkie: never. No twinkies besmirched my my pristine intestines until I got old enough to realize that yes, allowance can be spent on Snickers bars and no, the cashier won’t tell my parents.

When I hit a funk, it usually only takes an hour or a day before I’m my irritatingly cheerful self again. We’re looking at about three weeks now and there’s no cheerful in sight. I’m just irritating. I’m a fan of the don’t blog it til you’re over it rule, but three weeks, people. Even I won’t make you read about cookies 17 posts in a row. Hence, I’m running out of material. There’s nothing entertaining about “I ate a cookie. Then I climbed in bed for a few hours. Then I ate another cookie. Then I sat on the couch and stared at the ceiling. Then I got off the couch to eat a cookie.”

My funk may be rooted in my current allergy to mediocrity. The mediocrity, it chafes. To the best of my knowledge, there’s no medicinal salve for mediocrity. Entrepreneurs, take note. I would pay a lot of money for a creamy tube of Mediocrity Be Gone. As would the entire cast of Seventh Heaven.

Mediocrity and I usually have a reasonably comfortable relationship. Sure, there are high school dropouts who pull in a larger salary than I do. Sure, I want to write a book but for the blessed life of me can’t think of anything to write about. Sure, I just typed a paragraph that 97 people within a fifty mile radius could have typed better and checked fewer blogs while doing so, but those 97 people aren’t here and I am. So suck it, 97 better people.

But mediocrity is being a raving hormonal bitch lately and not as easily silenced as usual. Or maybe I’m the raving hormonal bitch. Because I’m no more mediocre than before, I’m just more annoyed about it.