Good morning! Got to go back to work today.  I think I may have the greatest job on earth, only I don't know it.  They give me four days off every week, and still pay me for forty hours.  Yet I still whine and moan.  It is dawning on me, finally (the diurnal cycle in my brain is semi-centennial) that I just like to whine.  I have whined all my life, and haven't had much good reason; at least not any reason related to what I was whining about.

Now here is an ideal opportunity for me to whine.  (Imagine nasally voice): "Da weel weezin I whine is cuzza (insert complaint)." Of course I can't identify the real reason.  Either it's not there (I've excised it with a psychological scapel) or it hurts too much, or I'm refusing to be an adult and deal with it.  Probably all of these.  So, whining about petty stuff diverts attention from whatever the real problem is.  Sometimes the things I whine about are precisely the things that make no sense to whine about.  I do this because somewhere long ago at the beginning of my lifelong tantrum, I chose to forever be a baby, and to try and make somebody else be the adult.  I refused to grow-up.  Ever.  

Well, I certainly have SOME reason for maintaining this absurd lie that I'm a helpless infant.  But I really do want to grow up.  So much of my life lately approximates that of a Seventh grader; discovering romance, developing a career concept, and getting to know who I really am.  Soon, I hope to be in high school.

More later, got to go to work...

Home from work and very tired.  I witnessed a miracle on the way home.  Meterologists call it an inversion layer, where cold air moves in and covers a warm air mass underneath it.  Around suppertime, the weather seemed more like a late summer evening, with mild--almost warm--breezes, and shreds of orange and purple clouds over the western horizon.  By 10:00 PM, a cold, clear sky had moved in on top of our unreasonably summery dream, and as I stood watching sparkling stars, rivulets of warm air ran past me, draining from the landscape as the chill advanced, and clouds--trapped like fallen angels here against the earth--rose in long wisps, like fingers reaching up to heaven.  

My back hurts.  My shoulder blades are whining now for powerful hands and strong fingers to push and knead the sore muscles that bind them, my discontent seeks relief under the physical pressure of a man.

Good night.