I wasn’t going to say anything on social media. I had a “procedure” done and am out of work for a couple of months on FMLA.

The recovery is going well, but the mental impact is more than I expected.

I’m trying to cling to the things that traditionally have given me pleasure, like rambling on about my shit of a life.

I used to like to blog long-form, but over the years this has shrunk to posts about the size of tweets. Doesn’t matter. I’ve been at this for years.

My online approach is to post to make myself happy, and if others like it or not, they can regulate it from their end. A good mantra is, “blog like nobody is reading it because maybe nobody is.”

Though I enjoy lampooning and mocking sometimes, I try to not ever direct it at anybody.

I keep my online politics on the mild side. Others who I know handle this better than I can.

That yaz hazzit.

When I was 8, 9, 10 years old or so, my mom got this idea that it would be good for me to be shipped off to summer camp a couple of times.

One summer it was “Y” (YMCA) camp. Another summer it was something that several of the Baptist churches jointly owned somewhere out in the boonies.

Each one involved me being taken away in a bus full of kids with me sunk down in the seat in despair, a la “inmate transfer.”

The “Y” camp was every horror that I thought it would be, and then some.

The Baptist camp was actually the good one. Church-like activities weren’t that heavy or numerous. There was hiking, a lake, a swimming pool, and good food. Music was great. I remember singing Three Dog Night “Joy to the World” with a couple of hundred kids several times.

I appreciated the Baptists bailing me out of some horror that summer.