I come up as the number one search result for "hugest head in the world" on Google.

But my large head is not what I am here to talk about, although it does bring to mind that one post I wrote called "If My Anxiety Or The Enormity Of My Own Head Doesn't Kill Me First, I Will Have A Birthday One Month From Today" that inspired a lot of head measuring. I found out that my head was not indeed the largest spheroid bobbing down the street, but still to this day, when I catch my reflection in a window, I see a ballooning shape not unlike the bun dough that my mother squeezes through her fist to make round blobs. Only, my blob is animated and twenty times the size and has a nose, so it's creepier, at least to me. I am anteriorly dysmorphic.

But I'm not here to talk about my puffy head. I came here today to reassure a few people that I am not the complete mess that my writing on this site has led them to believe I am lately: wallowing under quilts, gibbering to myself in the street, crumbling under the threat of cancer, and generally considering success to be matching up a pair of socks in the morning. I am those things at different times, but not all the time. I should also clear up that I am not all those things all at the same time, either, because that would mean I sometimes talk to myself underneath a quilt while I walk down the street sorting through a bag of socks, possibly pausing occasionally to raise my voice and wail Oh, the cancer!. I don't do that. I prefer to sort my socks in the privacy of my own home.

I have been doing pretty darn dandy these days for the most part, aside from the usually abrasive bits of life that rub up against most of us at one time or another. I just so happen to have several abrasive life bits grating on my tender spots at the moment. For example:

Oskar looks out the window

The above fool of a cat launched himself from where he was standing on my neck and the tender, baby flesh of my armpit and onto the Palinode's forehead and beyond at five this morning.

I know that Oskar's behaviour is not exactly equivalent to things like mental illness and physical health concerns and mighty discomfiting creative blockages, but he's a good example. Things come and go. Sometimes I roll over and let a thing flow the way it will, and sometimes I sit up and throw all manner of shit at it while it pants at me from the hallway. Either way, the thing will come, and it will go. Of course, this morning the thing left to go lay a rank piece of cat poo in the litter box, but it still left.

So, in answer to a query from a worried friend of mine the other day who had only this site to go by after not seeing me for several weeks: I am not drowning out here. I am writing. I am enjoying my job. I'm throwing myself full on into my new addiction to Panago's hot buffalo wings with jalapeño ranch dip. Drowning people do not want to baste themselves in a vat of Panago's hot buffalo wings and jalapeño ranch dip so that they can treat themselves like one giant, hot popsicle while watching CSI progeny. That's too much joy for someone who is struggling to give the third wave.

Imagine that I am patting you on the arm. DO NOT WORRY. In short order, we will all see the ass end of this infernal season we call Spring, which is annually the sadistic season that eateth my soul and introduceth adversity, and then it's onwards and upwards. Mr. Eliot said it best:

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
    - T.S. Eliot (1888–1965). The Waste Land. 1922.

Go, T.S.!

"My Generation" - The Zimmers

Charlie The Unicorn