When life’s pizza slices turn cold

Like pizza, certain slices of life are best served up hot rather than cold from the refrigerator after a day, a week, a month.

In fact, occasional have been those snippets of life, anecdotes or passing and seemingly banal moments when the thought’s arisen: “That’d be a great blog post.” Then the experience flows past and with it its blog-worthy aura. I’ve not missed blogging really. Five years of consistent contributions and dialogue is not to shake a stick at, methinks. Three years is the normal blog lifespan, I reckon. Contrary to the cliche, absence (from blogging) has not made my heart grow fonder. I’ve liked being away.

Anyhow.

I’ve got an amusing anecdote about my roommate, a guy — not merely a guy but a biker dude —  and laundry.  It’s somewhat dated, granted, and worth telling, yet for some reason I’m unable to draw from the muse to do so.

Worries, stress, anxieties, fears, thoughts and ruminations that put me ill at ease about life (present and future) weigh. As an analogy, some of them are mean clowns, bereft of joie de vivre. Others are aged grandmamas with declined hearing and mobility. Many are dreams tossed into a net like dead fish and some are … simply sorrows. Tears cried, in greater number tears unshed.

Grief unprocessed.

The niggling reason I can’t write on that funny laundry blurb. It remains in the fridge like that pizza slice. Oh well. I’ll {ahem} hang it up for now.

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