J 6/21/02

I am finally getting around to changing this entry, which initially
just said the word "Blargh." The word "Blargh" comes from a somewhat
offensive website called "Fat Chicks in Party Hats," in which the
site's creator prowls the web for the personal homepages of obese women
and, if he finds an image of some poor soul at a party and she's
wearing a hat, he posts the image on his own website with some less
than flattering commentary. I have mixed feelings about the site,
having busted a gut while alternately thinking, "There but for the
grace of God go I."

Incidentally, today is Sunday and I'm at work because I am a new
supervisor and life just generally sucks.

And speaking of laughing at the wrong things: The other night (and I
swear to this), I woke up from a dream that was based on a true story.
Some background: Several years ago a local girl was strangled to death
by the tetherball her parents had put up in the backyard. A tetherball,
if you don't know, is essentially a ball on a rope that's tied to a
tall pole. Two players or more stand on either side of the pole; the
goal is to keep the ball and rope from wrapping itself around the pole.
I read the article describing the girl's death. She was alone (clearly)
and had managed to hit the ball while too close to the pole, the result
being that the rope wrapped around her neck and strangled her (which is
not so clear; after all, there were presumably no witnesses). At such
an early hour, when this story replayed itself in my brain, and then
continued replaying once I'd woken up, I was taken over by
uncontrollable giggles. I even had to bite my knuckles.

My partner slept soundly next to me during my outburst, unaware that a
sociopath had briefly entered his midst. I can't explain my laughter.
Somehow, the thought of such a ridiculous death, coupled with the looks
that must surely have been on the parents' and neighbors' faces, sent
me over the edge.

Now I am terrified that I will start laughing at the next funeral or,
for that matter, any serious event I attend. At my mother's funeral,
when I was twelve, I sat stoically though the whole thing (which may be
because I went through Kubler Ross's eight stages of grief while locked
in a bathroom after her death was announced?all in fifteen minutes).
And it only seems to apply to tragedies involving human beings. For
instance, I've heard several stories of cats hanging themselves by
their collars when trying to jump from, say, a car onto a shelf in the
garage. All I can think then is,"Poor kitty."

Clearly it's some sort of hysterical (no pun intended) response to
awfulness, but I'm worried. Though I don't think of myself as a bad
person, maybe I am just cold-hearted enough to think humor is the
soothing balm for all the crap people face. And there, too, is where I
get even more worried, because for the past several months I've found
myself becoming more and more misanthropic, less empathetic, and
profoundly less sympathetic. Is it age, my past, some freakish,
singular depression?