[bell rings][salivation]

Someone of Import to Me (SIM) was uncharacteristically quiet yesterday. I reasoned away concern, proud of this conquest over worrywartdom. Anxiety Incarnate was twiddling its thumbs, though, sitting in the shadows by a roaring fireplace, comfortable in its wrought splendor.

SIM was stuck in an unmoving car (its performance lacked depth or dimension; I just didn't care whether [it] lived or died...perhaps under better direction?) for 16 hours in rural PA, in extreme cold and blizzardation, rabid Amish scouting for fresh and untraceable meats, and cell phone MIA. The only good points: the driver having less cannibalistic tendencies than some people (mainly, cannibals), and it being a full-tank'd Audi A3.

Anxiety states, while sitting back in its supple leather chair, hands folded together - uncharacteristically calm, "You see? Just come sit on my lap. I try to teach you and am patient. But stop trying to be 'sane' and 'reasonable' and deal in 'probabilities.' Chaos is my best friend. Trust me. You should worry."

That Bobby McFerrin song is in my head, only the internal editor keeps cringingly changing the punctuation:

Here's a little song I wrote
You might want to sing it note for note (I don't but can't stop.)
Don't worry? Be "happy?" (Voht iss deez 'hohppiness' auf vich you singk?)
In every life we have some trouble
When you worry you make it double (So now I have to worry that I worried, because the cosmos will strike twice as hard and justify worries two-fold as a result? You're not really selling me on this, Bobby.)