I’m aware that some of my friends, and definitely my family, think I’m a little direct, often blunt, maybe a little opinionated and possibly condescending at times. But the fact of the matter is: I’m too passionate for my own good!
Don’t snigger, it’s true. If something is bothering me or pisses me off, I’ll dwell on it until my head hurts. My mind churns the problem over and over like a milkmaid churning milk into butter. However, my problem churning doesn’t produce butter.
What I’m left with after all the churning is milk.
The problems that cause me the greatest of grief are the ones I can’t control or fix.
My neurosis doesn’t end at butter churning. You see, I’m a fortune teller. I take a worry and build a whole life around it. A futuristic life consisting of pain, anguish, poverty, and of course in some extreme cases; death.
It’s times like these I wish I was a man!
Men lack passion, unless the passion’s driven by a sport involving a ball and lots of sweat. I know that might be a generalisation but I haven’t met a man that breaks the stereotype I’ve come to expect.
What to do about my neurosis? Nothing I guess, because as I said in the beginning:
I’m too passionate for my own good!