Moral obligations

I don't know if it's so much that I'm a BAD blogger; it may be more that I'm an inadequate blogger, or, to be less negative, an artless, guileless, ingenuous, innocent, natural, simple, unaffected, unsophisticated, unstudied, unworldly blogger (thanks to Peter Mark Roget). I need more time to grow.

If you insist, Carrie, I'll tell everyone what I've been thinking the past few days. As you may recall, those of you who have not come unawares upon my blog, I have Stage IV breast cancer. Every now and then it occurs to me that if I had it my way, I would not have this condition. I rarely, however, say anything, not wanting to disabuse the world of a common opinion about me, as a brave and courageous individual who has accepted her terminal lot and vowed to dedicate herself to altruistic and selfless endeavors.

When I was in my thirties, I used to do what I called driving therapy. When things got really bad, I would get in my car and drive aimlessly, screaming, crying, and cursing without cease. Occasionally I would pull up next to some unsuspecting fellow sitting at a traffic light, waiting to turn and not expecting a madwoman to be ranting and raving loudly in the next car. Sometimes the situation was enough to turn my crying into fits of uncontrollable giggles.

Tomorrow I SHOULD go to the state Capitol and smile at local legislators, so they might take pity on us poor, helpless, disabled mental cases and put something remotely resembling an adequate sum of money into Connecticut's Department of Mental Health and Addiction Services budget. Here's the problem: I don't want to. I want to sleep late and have my coffee in bed, next to my kitties. I want to read email and forward things. I want to indulge myself.

If anyone actually reads this blog, please feel free to post your opinions about what I should do. Even you, Carrie.