Whack-A-Mole

The other week I was sitting in Thursday morning therapy talking about losing my marriage, leaving my home, retaking the bar, trying to get business, struggling with debt, firing an employee who wasn't working out, being chided by She-Who-Visits about how I'm not dealing properly with my impeding separation, my never-ending search for a rental apartment in Manhattan, and on and on and on.

My shrink stops me and says, "Your life seems like that game at carnivals. What's it called? The one where mice pop up and you try to hit them."

"You mean Whack-A-Mole?", I grinned.

"Yeah, that's it. Whack-A-Mole. Your life right now is a game of Whack-A-Mole."

And you know what, no matter how quick I am, how hard or sincerely I whack away, or how often I hit the little squinty-eyed subterranean bastards, they all keep coming back for more. I know this is supposed to be a kinky blog, but right now I just feel completely whacked out.

Today, I looked longingly in the window at the Louboutin store on Horatio and thought to myself that there was nothing about the way I feel that a woman wearing a pair of those shoes and wielding a nice cane couldn't fix with a few little whacks of her own.

Here's to whacking! Here's to Christian Louboutin! Here's to the ones with the high heels and the red bottoms. Hit me slowly, hit me quick. It's nice to be a lunatic!