More meandering babble about football, depression and ‘Rick and Morty’

Sunday football. Bears off. Patriots lost. Rams and Seahawks the night game. No skin.

Except … Pete Carroll. Strong distaste for him. Coached USC program rife with corruption. Reggie Bush has to give back Heisman. Carroll goes to NFL to make millions.

This is humanity. It is not a question of if we are being lied to. It is a question of how well the lie is told.

That’s grim. I know. Cynical? Fine. Cynicism is a perfectly defendable worldview. That humans will find a way to be worse is not shocking.

I should be ashamed that I am willing to say aloud that we are not that far from grunting savages scraping our knuckles across the ground killing one another over territory and resources?

Maybe I should. I’m not.

Diogenes, the original cynic, walked in daylight with a lantern looking for the last honest man. Today he’d use the LED light on his smartphone and tweet cutting barbs about how we are all being played for suckers.

Mercy. Where has such dark thinking come from on this Sunday night? Hmm. It’s hard to say. That seems to be the gear my brain is stuck in lately.

Am I depressed? Probably. Is it major? Not yet. Ah, but that brutal bastard “yet.” It hangs there, so small a word and so loaded like a gun.

This is the depressed and anxious mind: Even when you are not depressed, I worry about being depressed, which can lead to depression.

And when I am depressed, regardless of where I am on the spectrum, I worry it will be that horror show of major depression.

What can be done? Therapist says: “Break the chain of thoughts.” Best way is to talk out loud with somebody about what you’re feeling.

Funny thing about that: When I’m depressed, the last thing in this world I want to do is talk to anyone. I just want to go numb.

Like the Avicil song: “Wake me up when it’s all over when I’m wiser and I’m older. All this time I was finding myself when I didn’t know I was lost.”

Agree. Except that last bit. I knew I was lost. I have always known.

Oh, double mercy. More grim thoughts.

There is only one thing to do.

“Rick and Morty.”

New episode Sunday night. There was a dragon, lots of swearing, some gratuitous sex humor and, as always, one killer line from Rick:

“Don’t tell me how to enjoy things.”

Damn right.

Always find the art that can bring you joy against the sorrow.

Here’s five of mine:

1. “The Big Lebowski”

2. Taylor Swift’s “1989” album

3. Bob Newhart’s “Abe Lincoln vs. Madison Avenue” comedy routine

4. The Beach Boys: “Help Me, Rhonda.”

5. “The Germans” episode of “Fawlty Towers.”

I can go deeper, but I usually don’t have to. Load up one of those and the tide turns. And I am either headed back out to sea like a bold explorer or coming in to the docks, safe and sure.

Love and hope, dpf

Published by Daniel P. Finney

Daniel P. Finney is a professional paragraph stacker who grew up in Winterset and Des Moines, Iowa. The local newspaper paid him $25 for his first story when he was 17. He has typed for cash ever since. He is a flawed human trying to be a little less Incredible Hulk and a little more Mr. Rogers.

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