Wednesday, May 27, 2009

to dream the impossible dream. to drive the undriveable car. to do the impossible job. to open the unopenable jar.

This week feels like it is never going to end. I am not, not, resolutely not going to discuss my job on this page, but basically, I feel like I have aged ten years in the last ten days. I am not having a good time.

Elsewhere, though, I find myself in one of those almost obsessive-compulsive feedback loops, wherein everything is going through this Man of La Mancha "impossible dream" filter. Which is to say, for those of you who are uninitiated, that mentally, everything is "the un-__________-able _______." I am drinking the undrinkable Coke Zero. I am washing the unwashable dishes. I am wearing the unwearable shoes, writing the unwritable piece, sleeping in the un-sleep-on-able bed, petting the unpettable dog. Whatever, I get on these kicks. Every now and again, one of these will strike me as completely hilarious and I'll burst out laughing. I get looks indicating that perhaps I'd be better off in a home of some kind.

Of course in my head, I hear it sung to the tune. "To eat...the uneatable pie! To pack...the unpackable box! To cook...the uncookable dinner! To mate....the unmateable socks! To feed! The! Un! Feed! A! Ble!.....DOGS!"

Whatever, it's a game and it's funny and at the moment, it's what is keeping me (what passes for) sane.

1 comment:

tracy said...

I'm sad for your week that instigated it, but I LOVE the song!

Now I'm doing it!

To break the impossible sleep, to PAY the unpayable bills, (dum dum dum dum dumdum) to write the impossible pa-a-a-age, to TAKE the UN-DRINK-ABLE pills!

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A Microscopic Cog in a Catastrophic Plan by Laura Lorson is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
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