I have returned from the dead

Jabba the Hut

I took exactly a month off to deal with a cloud of gloom that overcame me in mid-June.  It is one thing to have gloom hit in the drabness of winter, but it is so wrong when it sideswipes you during magnificent June days.

Those of you, who experience the deadly gloom know exactly what I'm talking about.  The rest of you should be shouting praises to the universe that you have such perky DNA.

Spoiler alert:  even people with perky DNA will die.  Ha ha ha ha ha. (Just a little gloomy humor there).

Tom, who does not try to fix me, put it all in perspective today, as we were driving down Millcreek Canyon.  I was having a difficult time telling him that I needed a room of my own and could not share a study with him.

He said:  "You'd be a lot happier person if you would just admit you're Jabba the Hut.  You eat your young, your husband, your siblings.  You want what you want.  Get over it."

This made me laugh hard enough that I almost drove into a ravine.

Years ago, I wrote an essay in which I admitted that I was a grasshopper and not an ant.  It was a liberating metaphor.

Now, at seventy, I have a new metaphor:  I am Jabba the Hut.

Watch out, world.