Feeling fat and at the same time faint from hunger—this is a mismanaged life. I bump around from moment to moment, taking no account of where I’m at and what I’d been meaning to do, and the past few weeks add up to me being fat, and the hours I spent today add up to me being hungry. Meal after meal of dessert topping and peanut butter, and now look at me. Hour after hour of Twitter and what’s up with Count Binface, and somehow I never got any food in my body. I take all this to be ADHD, and maybe a specialist will agree when I get to see them (just got on the waiting list). In the meantime, I see ADHD-oriented tweets and find a lot of them sure sound like me. My life feels that way too. The way I live it, there’s something missing, a gear or ingredient that keeps the eggs from getting scrambled—I mean, that keeps every hour and every day from turning out assbackwards and with your plans disintegrated and gone.
I’m talking about an affliction, as opposed to a failing. At least I’m talking about that if the eventual diagnosis turns out the way I want. On Twitter the autistics don’t complain about being autistic; they remark on their small peculiarities and gripe about friction with the allistic world. But I’ve seen ADHD tweets that talk about ADHD as a pain in the neck and a handicap. One went further and described it as a scourge that burnt away the heart of life, namely the ability to plan and follow through and thereby accomplish. I wish I could find that tweet, because I agree with it. Out of all the billions of tweets that have been published, out of the millions that I have dully passed before my eyes, I found one that spoke a truth I have found nowhere else, a truth that may define my life. So I did absolutely nothing except move on to the next, and now that tweet is gone and I’m trying to recall it and instead just spinning out a sentence that I hope will end. Typical.
Blondi.I’ve been watching Succession lately and there’s a good joke. A TV personality on the Roy family’s right-wing news channel is suspected of being a Hitler fan. He’s called in for some nervous questioning, during which the interviewer mentions that the suspect’s dog has the same name as Hitler’s dog. “The Hitler’s dog thing is bullshit,” the man tells him. “Different spelling.” The joke: if he knows the spelling for Hitler’s dog, then that guy’s way into Hitler!
Okay, I know the spelling too. But I’m not a right-wing TV personality or much of anything else. When Trump came along, I figured I’d better learn more about how the Nazis took power, and one thing led to another and now I know about Hitler’s dog. The name anyway. I don’t know what the thing looked like, though one suspects it was purebred. (German shepherd, says Google. Big surprise.) Meanwhile, Trump’s in power and I still haven’t eaten.
