While I hope to be as serene as Yoda when I’m in my seventies, right now I’m rather cranky and sick of a lot of things. I am weary of people’s learnèd absorption in foreign matters, as though neurotic demagogues deserve more attention and intellectual gravitas than the corner convenience store robber or used car con man. At the risk of fitting the curmudgeon stereotype, I’m eye-rollingly ennui’d that each new generation, both sexes, rediscovers and endorses the feminine as a decorative piece of meat. Often what looks alluring to them looks like pure cartoon caricature to me. I’m tired of the righteous cyclically amnestic herd fickleness that turns on the political party in power every four or eight years because your imperfect father figure didn’t buy you enough candy or make you feel consistently good – but the other party's candidate will.
And, I’m sick of the culture that talks about “mental illness” as if it were a strange occurrence or disease entity that some picturesque minority suffers from. An NIH website states: “An estimated 26.2 percent of Americans ages 18 and older – about one in four adults – suffer from a diagnosable mental disorder in a given year.” Congressional Research Service cites the National Survey on Drug Use and Health’s estimate that “the 12-month prevalence of mental illness [is] 40.3% among adolescents” and the “12-month prevalence of mental illness excluding substance use disorders was 18.6% among adults aged 18 or older.”