Punch Rolling

This cartoon is brought to you by AFGO. (Another F***ing Growth Experience)

I'm not the sort to buy into self-imposed myths like the power of profanity, but I like to keep this blog safe for all ages and sensibilities, so I dug out the asterisks for the above headline. It's been so long since I used one, I couldn't remember where I'd put them. Turns out one of my cats had eaten the entire bag, so I had to dig them out of the litter box.

As for this cartoon, because I'm not the sort of person who can keep anything to himself, I must tell you I've had trouble enjoying moseying lately, too. Some bad mojo stopped by my Brooklyn apartment to visit recently and I've been going to counseling to try to get rid of it.

I'm a big believer in counseling, it has saved my life more than once, and the therapist I'm going to now is the bomb. I'm not the Woody Allen sort–seeing a therapist regularly year after year for my entire adult life–I only go during a crisis, usually for a few months, then quit when I've solved my dilemma. The same way you'd treat your car.

I'm on the road to solving this crisis, but I'm metrosexual enough to admit it's been damned difficult, and I've spent most of the past couple of weeks feeling like something left in the yard by a passing dog.

There have been many times recently when I've wanted to give up and disappear, even give up my career and just wander off into the night, never to be heard from again. A self-imposed witness protection program. But the temptation passes quickly since I have no other means of making a living and I dislike sleeping outdoors.

I hope my blogs and cartoons haven't suffered (the comics written during this struggle will appear in a few weeks). I've always prided myself in being able to hide my despair from my readers and complete my appointed rounds without interruption. I went through a hideously painful divorce back in the mid-90s, I never missed a deadline and most of my readers never noticed a thing. But as a blog reader, you have unwittingly placed yourself into a special group of those privy to my most private thoughts: fair warning, free country, view at your own discretion.

For instance, when I was a toddler, I was convinced I was not one, but several girls trapped in a man's body. And the man wasn't even me. A story for another time, perhaps.