I know, discombobulated isn’t a real word, but it’s been my adjective for feeling weird for years. I’m told there’s something in the ether, some cloud of chaotic emotion that is effecting people across the globe. It’s been a strange couple of weeks. Osama bin Laden’s protegee, now called The Underwear Bomber, gets caught on Christmas day trying to blow up a plane with explosives in his shorts. President Obama is MIA for 72 hours, letting his staffers who are handling the incident make him look like an idiot, before he gets his butt on TV and comments. Pelosi and Reid are locked in a room designing a health care Bill that will affect all of us, refusing to go public, even though other elected officials, Democrats and Republican alike, are getting ready to break down the door. It’s been so cold in parts of the country that Al Gore is being ridiculed by both environmentalists and conservatives. Brit Hume, usually a low key newsman, goes rabid and tells Tiger Woods on national television to convert from Buddhism to Christianity to get saved. On the home front, I find that two of the top selling real estate agents in my office are now promoting a multi-level marketing plan of green products because they’re worried they won’t be able to retire this century. I discovered that my boss isn’t paying the company phone and internet bills on time and the guy that fixes the copy machine won’t come back. Not to mention that I adopted a little dog who’s decided that she owns everything chewable in the house, or that the horse went walk-about the other day to visit a mare a mile away, and my 110 pound German Shepherd almost got through the fence to eat the guy next door. Having said all that, I feel like a spoiled brat when I read about my new friend in China daring to post on facebook even though it could land her in jail, or how a writer friend has to wash everything in his house with beach over and over because he’s taken in boys with Aids who haven’t got any immunity to flu or colds. As the saying goes, life is what you make it. I don’t think I’m making mine very well right now. My outside doesn’t match my inside, as above is not as below. Whatever Zen I had going is gone. I have this little sign. It says, “I can handle 38 assholes a month. DO NOT be the 39th!” Bowing to my potential for spiritual enlightenment, I withhold my temper until I get to 39 each month. Well, due to Christmas and New Years, I only had about 20 assholes in my life last month and I haven’t got more than 4 this month so far. There’s nobody to yell at except myself. Do you ever getting that feeling that something’s about to give? Knowing that things I write have about as much influence as a mouse fart in a hurricane, I’m writing this for myself. I feel better now. If you’re reading, I commend your bravery.