Tom put up three shelves for me this past week and a half. Don't ask questions. My writing desk is in the corner of my bedroom next to a north-looking window (I see the capitol from here). Mostly the shelves hold some art materials and miscellaneous books, but I also put froggy up there to oversee my efforts and make me smile. You can't smile enough, especially when all your craniofacial muscles are sagging into your neck. Did I say I was 80?
Deciding to write again has been a long journey out of a pit of despair, as John Bunyon accurately describes it. I am prone to such things, but through a laying on of hands and a little extra dopemine I have popped up like a weasel. Here are the signs of a dopemine deficiency:
- You lack motivation, “the drive.”
- You’re tired.
- You can’t concentrate.
- You’re moody or anxious.
- You don’t feel pleasure from previously enjoyable experiences.
- You’re depressed; you feel hopeless.
- You have a low sex drive.
- You have trouble sleeping or have disturbed sleep.
There is help out there, people.
Yesterday, my friend, Linda, and I went to IKEA for the first time in years. It was exhilarating to walk through the Market Place and see all kinds of odds and ends that we couldn't live without:
table napkins of various colors. A tray with birds painted on it. Eight drinking glasses. Eight place mats and a partridge in a pear tree.
No human being there to check you out. You check yourself out. Whine. Whine. I still miss gas station attendants.
Still, I love me a bit of IKEA.
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