You Can Call Me Taycheedah

I’ve decided to start writing at least a paragraph a day. This is not much by anybody’s stretch of the imagination, but avalanches don’t start with much either. The last year I’ve been struggling with recovering from major surgery and clinical depression, which is ever so much fun.  I like to think of it as a sort of tag team luchador fight with clinical depression wearing hot pink in the right corner. The upshot is that my productivity, she is curb kicked. Or mule kicked. Or whatever. I haven’t been writing. I haven’t been doing anything, and that needs to stop. This is therapy—one paragraph, every day, until the emotional scar tissue is worked down to tolerable levels of distress.

Apropos of nothing, at work I learned that there is a town in Wisconsin called Taycheedah. My fellow cubicle serf, Kevin, agreed that this is the perfect luchador name, and that I should hop on that project stat. And thus I became Taycheedah. Vanquisher of bullshit ad copy, destroyer of sloppy contracts. Depression trembles before me. Now all I have to do is get some colorful spandex and a sewing machine....