Hit me with something better, mofo

I find myself in a rut of sorts. You know what I mean. I'm sure you've been there yourself at some point in time. Life loses its meaning, wine loses its taste, oh woe is me, and bewaretheidesofMARCH!!

-and all that. And here you have two options. You either sink into your couch write obscure poetry about bleeding hearts and ruptured spleens, or you do something. Something else. Like Kendo. Or needlework, if you are of the senior persuasion. I'm considering the former option, but with my hand eye co-ordination I'm likely to put one of these two out. And though it defies all logic, having only one eye to see that which is the ruins of your life is not likely to halve your bleak outlook on life.

So maybe kendo isn't the solution to this. But something has to be done. I mean, you hear all the regular advice - when life gives you lemons, make lemonade, when your cat dies, make mittens. Not that many options when you're fresh out of lemons and knee deep in turd though. Turdonade? Behold, I am the mighty Turdonator. Turdonator three- The Rise of the Septic Tanks.

As you might have observed, the level of maturity of the more jovial content is directly proportional to the happy I feel. Right now I'm looking at age 4-6. A view from below, naturally, as I am trapped in the deepest pits of hell. Come to think of it, I feel a ruptured spleen coming on.