The Crack Up

I borrow from F. Scott Fitzgerald's revealing memoir the title of my first post back from hospitalization.

Nearly three weeks pleasant holiday in a hospital is not exactly what I had planned for myself, but then again, one never expects ill health until the last moment. When two or three crises hit at once, then I feel fairly certain I can handle them, but when seven or eight transpire at once, then I end up in a hospital.

Chasing the latest incarnation of some unholy bastard cross between Dorothy Parker, Sylvia Plath, and Zelda Sayer has run me into the ground on numerous occasions. This time, my whole life imploded around me as it so often has. I really ought to reserve space on my day planner (non-existent, but still a novel concept) for inevitable health issues.

While the rest of you have been agonizing over Clinton versus Obama, I have been grappling with my sanity.

Once upon a time, a girlfriend read my palm and found nothing particularly spectacular about my past lives. In truth, I cannot brag that I come from royalty or famous persons. My roots are humble and reveal little of note except for a history of workers who toiled the soil and lived lives of semi-quiet desperation. They earned their calluses the honest way.

I will never forget how she read my present life and found my love line to be rather convoluted. Convoluted might be a kind way to describe my luck and fortune in romance.

In time, after I decompress from the trauma of the last several days, I'll spill what I've gone through.