Scared.

I'll admit it. Looking at apartments means I'm actually doing this, this moving thing. Yes, any entry like this is self-indulgent and not necessarily for widespread distribution. Yes, I am being a little silly. But a good wallow now and then is par for the human course.

I found myself standing at the fridge, wanting something reassuring to eat. Nada. Only healthy things. I could have constructed something unhealthy, like sugar cookies or pasta alfredo or biscuits and gravy, but those take time and an effort I can't muster. Now there's a fix: too depressed to cook comfort food. How does a person come out from under that one? Oh, there's a comedy routine in that, I just know it.

Get thee behind me, Taco Bell! (Luckily we don't have that on my island, and the one fast-food place, Subway, closes sorta early. At this time of night, not even a grocery store is open.)

I'm taking a buddy with me for moral support. Thanks, ChefMan, for agreeing to take a road trip the day after you took a road trip.

I know it's not going to be the Apocalypse, or monastic, or a scene from CSI. And there are always unexpected good things that appear when we need them most.

Deep breaths, pardner, with a well-placed benzodiazepine and some whiskey for my horses.

Or have I gotten that phrase wrong? Not surprised.

I'm kinda feelin' it.