A celebrity died. I shed a tiny tear at first, because it was a great waste, but I really felt she did it to herself. I felt she could have turned it around if she really wanted to. She had more opportunity than do most. I've never gone through anything like that. I've had misfortune, I've had relatively bad things happen to me at times, but mostly I do pretty well. I never had an addiction, so I'm sure I don't know and maybe I have no right to comment.
Comment, though, I did. Silly Rhonda. Silly, silly witch. And after much goings-on back and forth, I was finally told I do not have the feelings a mother does. It would change me.
So I get to thinking, as I frequently do, why I do what I do. Why I give a shit. Why I bother to have compassion at all. After all, I don't even have a womb anymore. What do I care that the world will not be fit for us to inhabit if we don't change? Why should driving down the street and seeing homeless people, forgotten elderly people, litter, stray animals... why should that hurt me every single day? Why should I get choked up every single day about random things? I should not have these feelings; I am not a mother.
I can't get around this one. I really can't. I thought writing it out would help, but nope. Why DO I do what I do? What don't I just run around using as much plastic as possible, because, after all, why should I care? I'm not a mother. I should just hang it up.
I'm stuck. I'm stymied. I started to write something else altogether, but I couldn't go on. Oh, I'll get over it, but it may take a few. Days. Hours. Weeks. Dunno. Silly me. I thought I loved too much. I thought loving the whole world was good enough. I thought that mattered.
Apologies for the pity party. I'll buck up soon and be back to snark in no time. Thanks for reading.