Oh, Good Grief.

One of my favorite Charlie Brown isms. Good grief. Charles Schulz was the king of good grief. What was actually his own personal feelings of hopelessness, presented in a cartoon form, made him millions. Pure genius.
I am currently convinced I have Black Lung disease after scraping what seems like the entire state of Pennsylvania's worth of mud off of the horses.The weather has turned unseasonable warm again and we have had more torrential rain. The reason I hate Pennsylvania's winters has resurfaced. Mud. Lots and lots of mud.
Romeo has the typical old-horse, winter coat. It is long and slightly curled. A perfect catch-all for mud, small branches and bramble. He comes in every night looking like a bad B movie monster. He smells like one,too. The only way to describe what a dirty horse smells like is this: 1200 pounds of wet dog. Blech.
Veritas, on the other hand, finds it beneath him to dirty his handsome self. When he goes out, he finds a less muddy spot and does a small, wussy roll that just slightly soils his sides. Romeo picks the muddiest spot and scrapes both sides head-to-toe. When he is done even his face and forelock are covered. For the life of me I cannot comprehend how this makes him feel better in the winter. I get the whole summer/fly thing, but winter...?
So, enough bitching about mud. I am still coasting along in my state of numbness. I guess I am OK with it. I'm too numb to care one way or the other. I did have another talk with the doctor. I am going to persevere through this and stay on the lesser dose of the Prozac. I figure at some point my brain fog will lift and I will either be my old self or back to the deer in headlights. Either way, I want to give it the old college try. I can always up the dose if it seems like it gets to be too much. I just want to try and deal with my head while Prick is safely behind bars. This has been the first time I have not had the legal issues and his physical presence to muddy up my emotions. *snort* I obviously have mud on the brain. Thanks, Romie.
So, I function, I laugh with friends. It's all good. Good grief, Charlie Brown.
Even in writing all of this, I know this is text book grief. It'll pass. I just wish I could speed up time and have all of the answers. Where is that Lucy with her five cent psychiatric booth? Then life would be so much easier, wouldn't it? Or, at least, a little funnier.

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