The Brood/Harold

This post catches me at an unusual moment. My mood is changing.

I've been in a dark place today. My head has hurt every day for a week, and I'd allowed myself to brood this morning.

I used to do it regularly. I could spin a brood that would last for weeks if I wanted. I could go deep and dark and truly be alone in a crowd.

It's been many years since I made a habit of it.

***

It's been a week of pain though. I looked it in the eyes during sessions once or twice.

***

So this morning I did what I used to do when I'd wake up bleary and groggy, maybe after knocking myself out with something the night before: I pummeled my headache with Aftertaste by Helmet.

It

was

LOUD.

***

And it was good.

***

I have been taken away from that place though. I won't miss it.

***

I'm sorry to inform you that Harold the Hermit Crab passed away during the night.

I emerged from my shower to find Wolfboy standing quietly in my room. "I have good news: Harold is changing shells."

What?

"He got out of his shell, and he's taking a nap to rest up before he goes into the new shell."

Uh oh.

Sure enough, there was pale little Harold, curled up on his back in the corner of his cage.

"Let's give him some water. He'll want to drink it when he wakes up," said Wolfboy.

"Honey, I'm worried about Harold. This isn't how they change shells," I said, solemnly.

"Why did you call me 'honey,' Dad?" he asked.

***

We've lost Harold. [Wolfboy] thinks he's sleeping. Nope. I didn't have time to clarify & console... I'm sorry! I can dispose this afternoon. Hope he's not too ripe by then.

[From a note I left on MOBB's bathroom mirror as I headed out the door for lecture today.]

***

I'm told he's taking it well, and looks forward to getting a new hermit crab.

***

So I'll sign off now, and save my woe-is-me ramblings about blood and motor oil and being the caveman for another day. Consider yourself lucky.