Journal 08/31/08: "The Chicken Cure"

I hate periods.  I hate the change of life.  I never know what mood to expect; never know what somebody's going to say to ruin my perfect day.  I never know how I"m going to respond to people in my peri-menopausal state. Sometimes, I deliver a temper tantrum blow to the skulls of those well-meaning human beings whom I perceive as enemies. Or, I can launch myself into psychotic serial killer mode--verbally, that is. Invariably, though, I respond by extending my rapier-like claws and ripping innocent people to shreds.  

A whole young chicken might be just the thing to take away the aftertaste of last night's strange mood.  I mean, come on:  I'm getting choked up from a few mildly emotional scenes in Walt Disney's "Underdog"?  Two year olds wouldn't even cry over that stuff. But getting my hands involved with food: From thawing and rinsing the chicken in a sink basin full of cool water to putting the seasoned bird into the oven, all the way to the mouth watering, dizzying aroma filling the entire apartment, creating sudden happiness for me and my tummy:  This grounding experience might be just what I need to break my psycho-obsessive train of thought, and restore peace to my rattled soul.

I know: I'll take a few more deep breaths, then savor the hazelnut aroma coming from the rising steam in my coffee cup.  Then I'll undo the holistic healing effects of deep breathing as I enjoy the carcinogenic menthol cigarette smoke billowing from lungs that are threatening to leave me if I don't stop.  About two hours later, the chicken will be done.  I'll feast on the oven-roasted bird and mellow out, realizing that all is well after all, that nobody is attacking me, and that life is good. This serenity will last until my next psychosis-inducing moment.  Which is probably schedluled immediately.


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