Send Me Your Xanax

We live in an anxious age, in case you haven’t already been freaking out about it yourself.  Why, if someone gives me one more thing to torment myself about, I think I will have located my sanity’s 100th monkey, the one who’s going to pound out Macbeth on a funky old type-writer of my last nerve.

I used to be able to drink coffee with impunity, but today it’s like fingernails on my deepest darkest innermost chalk board.  My mouth, formerly a semi-useful body part, now seems to run around and get me in all kind of trouble.  Can’t I just shut up?

Times like this, I see how they can sell a lobotomy. Come on, Doc, just turn this creep in my brain off, please!

What I need is an eye lid to shut over my own rancid thoughts.  What I get is a creative impulse to share all with you, my readers.  Something tells me you’ll understand.