Oh, I’ve really been feelin’ my oats lately. I’m not entirely sure what that means, but I’m very sure I have NOT felt my oats in quite some time. I’m sure I’m a delight to be around. It’s like I’m permanently on my period or I’ve turned into a grumpy old man like Andy Rooney. I feel like Venus is in retrograde and it’s messing with my chakra. I’m not entirely sure what that means either.
I don’t want to get enraged by the perky checker at the grocery store who wants to know if I’m having a nice day. I don’t want to sit around in my smelly PJs with greasy hair and unshaved legs, eating ice cream straight out the carton, and crying like a little bitch because William died on This Is Us. I don’t want to always wear the expression Denzel Washington had on his face when he lost the Best Actor Oscar to Casey Affleck. I don’t want to constantly roll my eyes at people on Facebook who insinuate something is horribly wrong and I need to pray about it but they can’t or won’t tell me what is wrong.
I do want to smile and be happy and shave my legs and buy expensive cheeses and plan outings, but right now I just don’t have the energy for all that. I ain’t feelin’ my oats, but I guarantee you that Rick and Michonne were feelin’ their oats on The Walking Dead and it did my cold, dark heart some good for at least an hour last Sunday. They talked and smiled and laughed and ate chili mac and went to a carnival and killed a bunch of the undead and had a bunch of sexy times and obtained a bunch of weapons and we didn’t have to see Negan or Lucille even one time in sixty minutes. It was glorious even though they almost died more than once, and when Michonne jumped into Rick’s arms and they hugged for forever I swear I felt it in my chakra.