I stopped writing here because I felt I had nothing to say that I haven’t already said. I still feel that but now I’m worried that “use it or lose it” might apply to my ability to put words together in a pleasing way. I just read some advice to writers from Ray Bradbury, and most of it involves activating your language skills on a daily basis. I’m not going to argue with Ray Bradbury; he taught me (and most of us) to love reading.

My brain is barely firing, due to boredom, advanced age, or all my meds. I now take a pinch of Adderall with my two antidepressants, not to mention the Ativan for sleep. And the weed of course. I believe this pharmaceutical medley has impaired my thinking but a dull brain is better than one that is squirming like a toad.

I can spend days without one real conversation, because talking to one’s spouse doesn’t count as conversation. It’s more like a series of utilitarian questions and requests, interspersed with sighs and eyerolling.

So let’s talk about TV, because that is my life, second in importance only to my hair.

We started to watch that new Nicole Kidman thing, even though I knew I’d have trouble with her face. The face did not disappoint, and she added a dopey Russian accent. All the elements looked stupid, but I was game to watch until the Dead Son theme reared it’s triggering head. If you watch a lot of cable TV, you will have noticed how often a Dead Son elemement pops up, presumably to supply a dose of grief-porn to the numb viewer.

I am tapped out on this, and can’t take any more unless there’s a compelling reason, which won’t be found in TV dramas. So I refused to watch it. After The White Lotus, it seemed especially pointless, right? I know you loved The White Lotus as much as I did. I hope the hotel manager wins an Emmy! Mike White is such a nut case, in the best possible way. If you haven’t seen “Chuck and Buck,” go find it. You’ll be traumatized, but that’s Art.

Chuck and Buck brings me to a movie called “Humpday” that I watched despite all odds because the NYT suggested it. It’s about a pair of old college friends who decide to have sex for an amateur porn film. Since they are both straight men, hilarity ensues, ahem. More like extreme discomfort, but again, it is Art. I loved it.

I’ve also watched a bunch of violent foreign crime dramas, and there is no body part I have not seen chopped off. There are always hookers and glowering, swarthy bad guys who are hard to tell apart. I have to keep asking my husband, “Which one is this guy?” A perfect example of marital conversation!

Oh wait, I almost forget to recommend “Dave” and “Flatbush Misdemeanors!” They are so delightful, both of them, sharing the virtues of fresh characters, dialogue, and the sense that anything might happen. Go find them and you will thank me.

Finally, I just started watching The Sweet Life Los Angeles. This is going to be my go-to TV when the chopped up body parts and cries of “Putain!” wear me out. It’s a wonderful reality show where everyone is feeling some kinda way, and they refer to each other’s attire as “fits.” It is fucking heaven.

Okay, this is 574 words and I’m hoping Ray Bradbury is satisfied. I really desperately want to communicate, but my tools are either rusty or long gone. Try to bear with me. And let’s hear what TV you’re watching, and what meds you’re on.

I scrolled by these shoes today and felt their sadness.

They’re trying hard to look gay and festive and boho, but you can see right through that shaky facade. They are about to cry.

I don’t know about you, but I can see sadness everywhere. It’s either a gift or a pathology, depending on your value system.

I read a good thesis on empathy as a spectrum, with autistic indifference on one end and a kind of hysterical hyper-compassion on the other end. Neither extreme is any good.

A high degree of empathy isn’t the same as being depressed, although I’m depressed too. It’s just an involuntary response in the right supramarginal gyrus (part of the cerebral cortex.)

I don’t know why an abundance of empathy seems to result in an acute sense of the tragic rather than an overload of joy. It just doesn’t seem to work that way. Certainly not unless you’re stoned.

When poor Hillary Clinton spoke at the Commander in Chief forum last week, she was criticized for not smiling enough, and even worse, for appearing “joyless.”

Imagine being graded on how much “joy” you appear to exude!

Life would be even harder for those of us who feel the sadness of shoes.

When I was getting to know my husband, he complained once that I was not more “celebratory.” I remember feeling wounded but also furious. I think I screamed something like, “Celebratory isn’t even a fucking word!” I figured he was comparing me to his ex, who literally wore party hats.

Maybe there’s a spectrum for celebratoryness, which totally isn’t a word, with me at one extreme and the ex at the other?

Here’s one thing I learned recently and I wish I’d understood it forty years ago, before having my first child: There is a spectrum of human sensitivity, and is apparent in early childhood.  Some kids are more like dandelions and can thrive anywhere, while others are more like orchids – highly sensitive and more permeable.

With intervention, highly sensitive children can learn to process their environment in ways that make life less traumatic for them

If you’re always accused of being “too sensitive” or you suspect that your kid is anxious or depressed, read this.

But first, look at this Fendi sneaker:

It’s like an animal or bird crashed into it and died, but it won’t fall off. This shoe is not only sad, but embarrassed. It wears its shame wherever it goes. And so can you for twelve hundred bucks.

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One day last week, fresh from a shower, I swaggered into my husband’s home office, made eye contact, turned around and walked away. He put his guitar down and followed me to the bedroom.

There, we embarked upon an  intrinsically evil and gravely immoral marital act *.

Concentrating mightily, approaching take-off, I was visited by a crushing pain in my head, like being hit with a brick. FUCK, I thought. Determined to reward Houston, I persevered. Then, I announced that something was wrong.

I know a little about aneurisms, or at least I know the symptoms. If you have ‘the worst headache of your life’ and it came on suddenly, go to the ER.

I waited a few minutes to see if the pain would go away but it continued, pounding furiously and somewhat rhythmically. We called the 24-hour nurse hotline that comes with my health insurance. A nice old lady with a smoker’s voice who was probably wearing a housecoat advised me to call 911.

We drove to the nearest hospital and I put on lipstick in the car. I don’t go to hospitals without lipstick. The pain didn’t budge.

A nice doctor decided to give me a CAT scan, based on the pain level and my sky-high cholesterol. Even before leaving the house, I had decided against having brain surgery. Brain surgery meant shaving my head, so no. I tried imagining myself with one half of my head bald, wearing a scarf, and having a nice enough personality that people would still love me. I was skeptical about pulling this off.

The CAT scan guy told me to remove my earrings and that was annoying. I couldn’t get one out so he had to help me. He asked me what I did for a living and I said, “I write gossip crap.” He asked me where I wrote it and I answered, “a dumb website.” He gave me a look and said disapprovingly, “You sound like you don’t like what you do,” as though I had offended his sense of propriety. I gave up on bonding with him.

We waited for the test results. A nurse stuck an IV in me and I was sure it was intended for someone else. The doctor appeared and said my brain looked okay. The pain was a migraine, he determined. I mentioned when the pain had occurred and he said, “That happens.” I whined back, “It’s not going to happen again, though.”

A nice nurse with a fake flower in her hair told me she was going to give me some morphine. I was careful to hide my delight. She said: “You’re about to have the ride of your life.”

Are nurses supposed to say that when they inject you with morphine? We talked about her son, who had just joined the Navy, then she turned off the light to let me ‘rest.’

It took a few minutes for the pain to stop and my husband told me to be patient. We decided that since I didn’t need brain surgery, we would go get hamburgers.

Another nurse gave me some aftercare instructions and prescriptions I planned not to fill. I asked if it was okay to eat a burger and she hesitated but agreed there was nothing better than a burger and fries.

I told her that I’d decided to have a burger and fries for my last meal if I was ever on Death Row. She shrieked, “ME TOO!” and we shared a high five.

The burger from Bunz was totally fucking amazing. I can’t recommend it highly enough, whether or not you’re about to die.

I used to enjoy attempting to diagram the brains of my friends and family. For example, my husband’s brain would be 50% blues, 40% jazz, and 10% Everything Else.

A few years ago, I made this representation of my own brain. Shopping was by far the largest portion, with revenge and guilt occupying second and third place. It’s interesting to find that one’s concerns actually DO change, over time. Today, I spend more time worrying about my teeth than plotting revenge.

Try diagramming your own brain; it’s fun and educational!   (If you’d like to commission a model of your brain like the one above, let me know. xo)