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Some sort of demon or acting-out adolescent Complex has tipped Mr. Ego out of the analytical adirondack chair and now it is quite ensconced.  It seems like only yesterday I was vowing all sorts of virtues yet here I sit, eating a big bag of Goldfish crackers, swilling wine, and disregarding my to-do list to stretch, read, and go to bed early.  The only thing missing from this mardy scene is a smoke.

Alas I am not allowed much space in the day to let down my hair and go rogue. All day long I set examples of patience and prudence and now it’s evening and I say stuff it. I think that’s why AbFab is so attractive: those awful two get to act out all my awful fantasies of narcissistic self indulgences.

As a boy I had a fervid fantasy some Sunday evening as my midwest mother set down the usual hamburger hot dish Father would not say his usual ‘That looks nice dear’ but throw up his hands and shout ‘Hey! I’ma sick of this stuff!’ and reveal our latent Italian blood and lead us all into temptation that would lead to food fights, slaps, and (if all went well) concluding with murders and suicide.  This never happened of course, more’s the pity.

This is all textbook 101 Jung about Denying the Shadow – if you don’t give Shadow acknowledgment and give it space S tends to break out in piss-poor ways and burn the house down.  I’ve seen The Bacchae I know what happens.

What I need of course is a night of debacle with plenty of nasty chips with singing, dancing, and .. so forth. I should consult The Board (no saints themselves) on throwing my own little Pon farr.  Jolly good fun.

Meanwhile the bag of Goldfish has been consumed and there ain’t no more.  I feel Mr. Ego slowly crawling back onto The Iron Throne and re-establishing sense and order.  It’s 930PM, I should brush my teeth, put out tomorrow’s clothes, and retire.  I lead a dull life.  Please pass the hot dish my dear.



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