It happens that I occasionally wake up and discover that something I had when I went to sleep has gone missing. Usually, it's something like a single earring or a boyfriend, but this morning it is my sense of humor that's taken a powder.

Well, my sense of perspective, maybe, is actually what's missing, but when that disappears, humor, that cheap bitch, tags along for the ride. I find it easier to think that things just aren't funny than to analyze how else I could look at a situation.

It's a nice way to simplify things, I think, because I normally spend all my time over-analyzing everything. (Over-analysis is a big part of my time management plan, one that keeps me from making decisions I might regret, and also gives me that nice, warm feeling of productive self-involvement that other people miss when they choose to interact with others or take steps to advance their careers.) Now that I am at least temporarily free from overanalyzing the situation, I have plenty of time to sulk and brood and listen to the Cure. See? Right there I have found something that subverts my brooding plan: I don't have any music by the Cure, so already, even as I typed that previous sentence, I was thinking about how I could theoretically go get a Cure CD at lunch, although I already have lunch plans with Colette, but maybe I could stop by Just Play Music. That thought segued into the idea that a Cure CD would fail to elicit the much-desired "Good choice" from the clerk ringing up my purchase, and you know, today, I don't know if my ego can handle that kind of blow.

And so, my attempt at passing myself off as someone capable of not over-thinking a problem has completely failed. Which is good! Because my admission that I am a fraud will fuel a few productive hours of brooding and self-torture about how shallow I am, and how bizarre it is that I feel the need to highlight that particular trait, as it is already patently obvious to everyone.

Huh. Explore.

Star of the day. . .Jean Paul Sartre