A fable.

I have poured out the vodka and not had it or beer or wine in the past three days. I have decided that all that contributes to the depression.

Haven’t mentioned the depression yet, have I? To me, it’s rather like a fish forgetting to mention water… the medium in which it lives. Soon I’ll be 48, and, as far as I can tell, I’ve swum in this particular ocean since I was 13. My innate mathematical genius tells me that’s about 35 years. The root cause of this depression has just died, and has just had her grave marker ordered by me.

I feel like the lion in the fable, who has just had the thorn removed from her paw by the little mouse. The little mouse, in this case, would be the passage of time. (I suppose I have an affinity for stories about animals with bad feet just now, but you gotta go with the imagery life hands you.) Thirty-five years is a long time to have a thorn in your paw.

Now I must do the little mouse a favor in return, but what favor can you ever do for time itself?