La Follia

I should write this in Italian, but aside from some entrees I don't know the language well enough to do anything but order lasagna, which I consider the greatest thing a human being could possibly eat. With or without meat, it is fantastic when made with care and love, and without skimping on the layers. Life can be like lasagna: when made well, it's the most wonderful thing imaginable; when just slapped together without enough layers, it's still better than the alternative, but ingested with the feeling that something is missing. Don't let life be like bad lasagna: always demand more. It's been too long since I've had lasagna, even bad lasagna, which can lead to an emptiness that threatens the mind. Many days I have an empty feeling, so pervasive that I want it to end, and I wonder if I should get off the streets and have myself committed to a place for the mentally ill. I've pondered that question for 30 years to be honest, and since I manage to hold myself together I have always chosen freedom. Now I wonder what good freedom is when friends leave you alone and love can't be found. Perhaps freedom is like lasagna, and it all depends on the ingredients. So if I'm sad, I usually feel happy at least once or twice in the day, but isn't that like bad lasagna? I demand more. If I don't get it, I should be sent someplace where I won't hurt myself, and I'm sure the nice, young men in their clean white coats will look out for me. Something about a man in uniform that makes me feel good. If my life was good lasagna, I would be eating with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, not by myself at a fast food place surrounded by people dressed haphazardly. Oh how I yearn for lasagna, even a frozen, store bought lasagna, Stouffer's preferably. I hadn't thought about lasagna for months, but thanks to Antonio Vivaldi and his composition La Follia, it's all I can think of at the moment. La Follia means madness in Italian, and Italy is where I should go if I do decide to commit myself, because I'm sure lasagna is an important part of the healing process, as well as other varieties of pasta and the inevitable pizza, which I often think about and have done without for far too long. If Senator Klobuchar was any good, she will see to it that the games that have promised me thousands pay up, so I can sleep on a nice bed and go to a good Italian restaurant, but in my current mental state I am liable to spread malicious rumors that the entire Senate is in on the scam, and that bringing false hope to poor people is the only thing that Chuck Schumer and Mitch McConnell can agree on. After the long, detailed message I left on her answering machine, I will soon know: if she is worth her salary, I will eat lasagna in her honor, but if she's just another con it's a cheap beef burrito at Taco Hell. Today I will remain free, as lonely and painful as that is. It still beats the alternative.