I’ve said before I think too much and I do. It’s really not good for me and has got me in all sorts of schtuk. Someone once intimated that I’m a serious person, and I was horrified, frankly, and disagreed. But maybe they were right, or at least lately that’s how it feels. I am an introvert. I have no idea whether introversion and seriousness come as a package deal, and I don’t care to read another confining and narrow definition of a fictitious individual. I can let my hair down with the best of them. My husband and I laugh all the time, over ridiculous things. I consider it one of the best things about us, that we laugh together. But maybe thinking too much and seriousness go hand in hand, because you can’t really think deeply without being aware of the seriousness of things. A post I wrote last night was a summing up of thoughts that have been sedimenting just recently, about the unbearableness of some of the things we have to go through. You think when you’re young that you can avoid the worst of life if you try hard enough. Hell, I was a cautious sort of kid, avoiding the trouble and pain I knew was out there lurking. But it caught up, oh yes it did. When I write about those painful and serious things, I don’t tend to write very seriously. Partly because there is a funny side in a lot of things. Like farting. Come on. There is. Like death. One thing I can’t bring myself to write tongue in cheek about is my divorce. Right there I stumbled on a free-writers block. Sometimes when there’s too much to say, I just can’t say anything. Eventually I could untangle the strings of words and pull out the strands, but that will be a Very Serious Post. Or maybe it won’t after all. I can feel the irony coming on already.