I worry far too much. I mean I worry all the time. It’s not good for me. Or so I’m told.
I’ve decided that as a means of trying to help myself worry less that I will define a list of things that are worth worrying about. The small things, like will there be enough potato salad for everyone to have with Christmas lunch, should I make the traditional Swedish herring-beetroot salad for the lunch even though I will be the only one eating it and is it OK to wear black nail polish at my age, well those things are quite frankly not worth worrying about.
So, currently my short list of things that are worth worrying about looks something like this, it’s a draft so it’s subject to change, but this is it for now:
You’re suffering from a rare form of leprosy which has caused you to lose both your legs and you can’t afford a wheel chair. You’re trying to dial for pizza but your fingers keep coming off because they get stuck to the phone keys.
Someone has lost their head, literally, and you caused it to happen when you were swinging the samurai sword you for some odd reason were given for Christmas. Your mum’s really pissed about the mess but you’re more worried about the whole prison-dropped soap-shower thing.
The sky has fallen down on you, literally, because unlike in the Asterix and Obelix adventures where people just worry about it and it never happens it did actually happen to you. It’s your turn to do the cleaning and you wouldn’t even know how to start. There’s sky and space junk everywhere!
Your Siamese cat has embraced white supremacy and is making demands that you kill your two black cats immediately preferably by gassing them. He is gathering other cats in the backyard and they’re working on some sort of manifesto.
Your two black cats are in negotiation with the guys who made the Nuremburg trials happen and they want you to pay their solicitors fee. They’re threatening to involve the UN if you don’t.
The internet is down and your ISP is refusing to take your calls.
You wake up one morning and realize you’re the captain of a slave ship doing a run between Africa and America, only you’re black and you’re transporting whities to Africa to become slaves to be used in the local farming industry. Knowing what you know about the whole African-American thing you’re faced with a moral dilemma that threatens to cause you a nervous breakdown. There’s no Xanax on the ship and you’re out of rum.
Your meth lab blows up and now everyone knows you’ve been supplementing your income. The tax department wants their slice of the profits and rival gangs are shooting through the windows of what’s left of your house. Your kid tells you they’re ashamed of you.
You wake up one morning to realize that you’re a man trapped in a woman’s body or vice versa. You don’t know how to break the news to your spouse or partner. Not the news about being a man trapped in a woman’s body or vice versa but the fact that you’re going to have to charge your sex change operation on your joint visa card.
There’s no peanut butter.
...I feel this is going to work for me you know.
Another thing worth worrying about....
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