A “Funk” I say after exploring my state of being, searching my vocabulary for the word to define. Having never used this word before with caution, I looked it up before proceeding, not wanting to sound like an ass. I found many meanings that might lead to misinterpretation, however, its Scottish origin of 1743 defines funk as “depression, ill-humor” precisely how I feel. Don’t you just love finding that precise word?
Everyone can’t be having an off day. Today, I read the same blogger’s as usual without a thought to comment, not even clicking a “like”. I am even annoyed by the missed humor, as these writer generally invoke my laughter. Today, nothing and I’m annoyed. I specifically went to these happy places to escape my funk and yet I remain exactly where I started: in the funk.
It’s an odd word. I much prefer another four letter word beginning with “f” and ending with “k”, a passionate word it is, unlike funk. The other word, I used just this morning when hearing the news that Tom died. I didn’t particularly care for Tom or for the way he treated my little sister or how he (in my opinion) ill-provided for my sister and their children. Today, I said that other “f” word and now I am stuck in a funk.
I’m not in a funk because I said the other “f” word, I say it all the time: cooking/burning myself in the kitchen, the word flies from my mouth, sending Peanut the dog running for cover.
Then there are times like this, hearing the news that someone passed away and with the news I lose my ability to articulate in a proper manner. Of course by the time I had my sister, the young widow, on the phone, I was able to say “I’m so sorry for your loss” and inquire as to: how she and the children were dealing with Tom’s passing.
This funk has nothing to do with Tom. I’m upset, depressed, ill-humored, and in a f__king funk because the people I love are in pain.