Send fear packing.
Fear and I have a dog-and-bone relationship.
Power outages. Achey chills. TV news. Unemployment. Downed trees. The Election. Plague-doctor nose cones. Lost mail-in tax returns. Panic attacks. Masks with too-tight elastic. A sinking bank balance. That large creature in the attic that will scrape through the walls any day now. A low car tire. Poison Ivy. Loud trucks. Sweaty-palmed phone calls. The cat’s swollen, bald ear. Ruined soup in the fridge. Bathroom scale readouts. An empty asthma inhaler. Search results for “How much is too much whisky?”
I’ve got a bottomless basket of worry-bones for Fear to toss, and I obediently chase them down rabbit holes. I bet I’m not the only human with a stash of stinky buried bones to supplement the common ones. It’s become a family tradition, and I get it. I used to believe in it.
Maybe it’s my Deep-South upbringing or my Autistic characteristics, but…
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