I was six months old, speaking in tongues in the local missionary church to an audience in awe, when suddenly…

Someone pointed out that listening to a baby gurgling couldn’t possibly be considered divine. And that was the end of that career.

Howdy! I’m experiencing something of a spring break from the supposedly wondrous world of developmental psychology (babies!) and have thus taken refuge in the countryside. The soothing spring air will cleanse my mind and the crystal clear sunshine will burn away what stains I have gathered in sin. The euphoria of this last weekend is taking its backlashing toll in the form of melancholy. Oh, woe! There is nothing to do but wait and possibly gluttonize. Everything has a shade of black to it and everyone is looking at me with pity. And I’m looking back in fear.

All the goldfish in the garden pond are dead. It appears they drowned and ended up deep-frozen within a solid layer of ice. And now they’re millimeters away from reaching air and the possibility to rot. That’s the thing about spring. It’s such a dramatic process, this restarting thing we’re doing. Old presumptions and dirty secrets suddenly have nowhere to hide and are forced to stand, bent down, in an unforgiving, dazzling sunshine. It’s not like we have a damn choice. If we want to restart and get renewed life, we have to encounter the stale and the old and the stinking. Like making that unpleasant phonecall so that you can move on. Or cleaning your room in order to get your candy. That’s spring for you. Together, of course, with brand new clothes in bright fucking colors. No wonder people get anguished and depressed.

Me, I’m not depressed at all. I just need some well-deserved cocooning. Weeklong. Planning on pondering upon whether I’m more of a sociopath or a socioholic. Might settle for sociorexic. And daddy promised to remove the fish. Only a couple of millimeters now…