This is it: I am officially, hopelessly, irrevocably wrecked . . . not so much dysfunctional as non-functional. My body doesn’t want to move; my mind is in a complete fog; and my spirit has flown the coop. I can no longer even read the news, much less write about it.

The only reason I am writing this is to keep my streak going: I have posted on my blog for 359 consecutive days, and will hit a year in just six more days. To break that now seems wrong, somehow. So, here I am . . . a hollow shell of my former self . . . but still here, tapping away at the keyboard.

Which, by some crazy, circuitous thought process, has brought to mind my favorite aunt — my mother’s younger sister Ethel — who passed away some 14 years ago at the age of 93. She enjoyed remarkably good health for most of her life, except for that chronic constipation thing. But we each have our cross to bear, and that was hers.

Other than that, though, she remained active and vital, both physically and mentally, up until the last few years when she finally started to slow down, just a little. And she was forever a cheerful, affectionate, generous woman, always thinking of others and not given to complaining. When I would call to check on her, and asked how she was doing, her standard answer was, “Oh, I’m fine. Except, you know, for my bowels.”

But in her last years, she would sometimes tell me that she’d wake up in the morning and ask herself, “Why am I still here?” I would always tell her it was because we — her family and friends — loved her and needed her. I knew it wasn’t enough, but I like to think it helped a little.

I miss her; we all do.

Anyway, I was thinking about her today because I realized I have another birthday approaching in a few weeks. No, I’m nowhere near 93 yet; but I have begun wondering why I keep fighting so hard to stick around, and to remain relevant. And I just don’t have an answer.

Yes, I like to think my family and friends will miss me when I’m gone . . . at least for a while. But they’ll be fine; it’s not as though I have anyone relying on me to take care of them. And until a few years ago, there were many things I still enjoyed doing: traveling, going to the theatre or a movie, meeting friends for lunch or dinner, strolling through a museum, going shopping, or simply taking a long walk on a lovely day.

But most of those things are no longer easily accessible for a variety of reasons, and I have a lot of spare time; so I’ve turned to writing. And I do enjoy it. But much of what I write about has to do with current events . . . and that’s where I’ve run into trouble.

Because — as bad as the last few years have been in terms of world affairs — this year has become such an unending shitstorm of horror and total insanity, it has turned me into a much crankier version of my Aunt Ethel. Like her, I have begun to ask myself why I’m still here.

The saddest part, though, is that — unlike her — I’m not sure I want to be.

And for that, I hold two people responsible. You know who they are; and they are conspiring to destroy my country — possibly the rest of the world as well — and I can’t bear it. To quote Danny Glover’s character in the “Lethal Weapon” movie series:

“I’m too old for this shit.”

I’ve simply run out of strength.

*. *. *

And now, having gotten all of that off my chest — and, by the way, I thank you for reading this far — I believe it’s Haagen-Dazs time. Life still does hold a few small pleasures.

Perhaps I’ll adopt that as my new mantra: “As long as there’s Haagen-Dazs, there’s hope.”

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/8/25