Checkmate in three moves in your heyday.

AGHHHHHHHHHHHH DAVID LYNCH HAS DESTROYED ME YET AGAIN!!!

This time in a good way AND a bad way.

The history behind these statements: last year, I got my dear sweet tolerant generous friend Meghan to go to Coolidge Corner for a midnight showing of "Blue Velvet." I had never seen it before and honestly didn't have any idea of what to expect. I knew it was "weird," but that was it. Suffice it to say...two hours later, I had ruined Meghan's life and wreaked havoc on my own sanity. That was a scary walk home to Kenmore Square. (The famous story which comes out of this is: Meghan got home and was so scared that she woke up our friend Karl and made him watch "Roseanne" re-runs on TV until she had chased the Lynchian demons out of her brain. Karl went to the kitchen for a glass of water, and then burst back into the room screaming 'I LOVE YOU! LOVE ME!!!!!!!!!!!!' a la Isabella Rosselini in the movie. Another hour of 'Roseanne' was the only cure for the relapse which resulted. :P )

Anyway, then I went the next weekend at midnight to see "Wild At Heart" and walked home in the rain, again at 2 in the morning, totally wired and freaked out.

Cut to me on any given night of the past month....laying in bed binging (shouldn't there be an "e" in that?) on "Twin Peaks." It had always been something I knew about, and vaguely thought I might want to watch, though honestly I had some difficulty keeping it straight from "Northern Exposure" (Nitz and Erin have the same issue...anyone?)--but on the strong recommendation of someone whose taste I trust, I Netflixed it and then all of a sudden, my life was gone. Gone, gone, GONE to the charming smile of Agent Dale Cooper, the coffee and cherry pie at the Double R, and the wisdom of the Log Lady. But it was good.

So I was understandably upset when, last night, I found myself at the last episode in the series. And even MORE upset at the ending. No spoilers here, folks.....just that I felt the same way at the end of TP as I did at the end of Carnivale. But I was 100x more terrified this time. I couldn't go to sleep because I was so jazzed, AND because my apartment was super cold...which I couldn't fix because I was too scared to get out of bed (some part of me recognized how stupid that was, but a BIG part of me thought 'better safe than sorry' was a good motto to operate under, at least until the light of day). So I woke up every hour on the half hour, shivering, excited, nervous...what a way to spend a night!

As a result, I seemed to be a little on edge when I woke up. After an uncommonly nice beginning-of-morning, I swooped down into the ugly depths of a non-specific sadness, complete with tears-in-eyes and inexplicable morbid outlook. Luckily, when I got outside, the sun was shining, I had someone to cheer me up, I drank coffee, and when I got to work I ate a piece from a La Mama-shaped cake.

And now the sun is not shining. But I feel okay. It's better to remember: maybe if I don't encourage myself to feel sad, I won't feel sad. Allowing myself to feel sad and encouraging myself to do it are two different things. It is important for me to differentiate between them.

DiaBEETis!