Feeling Listless

I know what you’re thinking: you’ve missed me, oh God, how you’ve missed me.

I have days where I have so much to say, but I haven’t had one of those in a while. I can’t tell if I’m through with talking, or just have a case of the ennui.

There was a time when that French burkini ban would have inspired me to churn out 500 words – instead, it’s left me cold.

Like, who cares? Wear everything, wear nothing. Wear whatever you want. Be judged by the fashion police, not the real police.

(I say that, of course, as an aspiring member of the fashion police. I judge all the time – doesn’t mean someone should go to jail or be fined. I mean, they’re already being punished enough, wearing bad clothes.)

I can’t work up enough energy to care about Rob and Chyna. Sorry. (Not sorry).

Other headlines, too: pfft, pfft, pfft. Some guy doesn’t understand “consent”? Another drunk girl is sexually assaulted and then called a “slut”? What else is new? Until our sons recognize that they have more power than they think they do and stop abusing it, and our daughters start to demand their own, the headlines won’t change. Nate Parker be damned – that situation was, sadly, not surprising at all.

It feels like stuff I’ve already written about, already thought about.

Local news? News from our little neck of the woods? All of it seems old hat. You don’t like the housing prices? It’s not just the Province who’s to blame, it’s the municipalities too. You don’t like how the schools are being run? Pull out your pen and write your MLA. Worried about Global Warming? Advocate for nuclear power.

I’m listless, lately – and not in a bad way, just in a “my time on the soapbox” is done, way. In an “I’m going to keep my head down and keep on plugging along with my real life” way.

Give me a couple of weeks.


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