Maturity Is A Foul Word

Paranoia ranks high in my anthology of distorted leisures. I always suspect the Universe will drop anvils upon my head, especially when I’m not looking.

Sneaky slut.

Anyway this is one of those wadding entries which have no significance or purpose but to calm a couple of identical paranoiacs who follow this virtual insanity to such alarming compulsiveness. No, I’m not decomposing. No, I’m not shipped without preamble straight to Alcatraz. No, I am not convalescing from gender reassignment.

Yes, I’m busy as hell and it’s grating my nerves to no end.

These past few weeks have been a constant struggle. Things didn’t turn out efficiently as I giddily anticipated, thanks to the warped sense of humor of the ironic cosmic powers that be. At times my faith in people and the general goodness and benevolence of the universe fluctuates. Yet the annoying thing is I can’t seem to shake off that infinitesimal sliver of hopefulness clinging like fungal growth that refuses to go away at the back of my head. I should have thrown a tantrum. I should have exploded into wrathful fits. I should have shrugged off my shoulders and plot retributions with glacial howls of fury.

Strangely, I’m calm. Strangely I’m patient, pragmatic…restrained.

When did I ever grow old?