My Little Golden Book of Phobias

I'm so relieved that I can still be a Pisces after all the kerfluffle about the zodiac adding a 13th planet named Okechobee or some such. And don't you dare take away my Leo rising even though pride goeth before a fall, as my mother would say. Without my Leo thang I'd be a pile of Piscean mush all wishy-washy and stoopid in the head. As of this moment, because I saw a rainbow ring around the moon, I have dedicated myself to unseen forces behind potholes and candy corn, which is not candy or corn.

Tonight while driving home after my writer's group, I contemplated the meaning of life and I have rediscovered that there is no meaning really, an argument I had some years ago with an ex-lover. I stand by it. Life=no meaning, not in the usual sense. Josh has a 10 month old baby and he says that life is bliss and effing crazy, all at once. Exactly. Babies make you insane with their incessant demands and their total control of the situation. They scramble your few remaining brains. Muttering and stuttering ensues. And we all started out the same way. A baby, drooling and pooping. Gawd. That's why babies are cute and look like us. So we don't put them in a basket on the steps of the municipal building down town. With a note.

I don't know why I'm writing this. Probably I'm avoiding talking about upsetting current events. Don't get me started about the polar bears. I'm going to listen to the Fleetwoods sing 'Mr Blue' and drift off to sleep.

Goodnight dear indigo. You know who you are.