on my bestest language days, i still get lost in metaphor with the greatest of ease. on the best language days, i could make a stand-up comic routine, if i could leap the performance anxiety hurdle. on my psychotic days? ? ? am i pulling your leg or taking your hair? do i take off my belt or my shoes? oopsie. . . i only take off one shoe for proper use of that metaphor. what kind of "good girl" am i?

sigh. . . jimmy ruffin just started crooning in my head. I walk in shadows searching for light, Cold and alone, no comfort in sight." i don't much care if his words are literal or metaphorical. i'll trust my editorial staff to define the grammatical classifications. for now, the song fits my psychosis.

i am currently in psychotic episode. the love of my life is using his ivy league language skills to give me lots of new and improved metaphors for my psychosis. my self-flagellation reflexes are storming the therapy gates.i donae care to search for proof one way or the other, but i am willing to bet dollars to wishes that their strategical posts are far more conveniently located than any empiracle gates. i'll trust my bookie to research the bet. i donae care to speculate to the nature of the barbarians storming the gates. methinks i am lost in metaphor -- AGAIN! ! ! i am equally willing to bet my bookie doesn't have the skills to research that one.

a psychotherapy tool i have been using to survive this yaddah blah is to put some literals to the metaphor. the old world monks who literally practiced self-flagellation used literal whips to yaddah their blahs. this morning i put the 3-foot bull whip i got for christmas around my neck and tucked it neatly beneath my shirt to keep the children unaware while i prepped them for their first day back from the winter vacay. yay me! ! ! i got the children --the mean name caller, too -- off to their busy days with a game face that was functional enough to pass my psychotic mask inspection. once the players were off to their busy days, i pulled the business end of the bull whip out of my shirt and whipped it over my shoulder when the echoes of last night's love making reverberated though my broken brain.

reality checks requested. personal experience, as well. unsolicited advice tolerated with the diplomatic skills of a beaten crazy bitch wolf.

again i leave the mood icon on the rapid cycling median.

for what it's worth

i also got a 10 foot bull whip for christmas. it is far too long for my shortish height, but i bet it would fit hubby's literal anatomy well, if he cares to literate along. that seems highly unlikely for an ivy league word smith. i'm still hoping that the poet i fell in love with is still in there, somewhere. just hoping. . . praying, too.