Word: Bed Rot

 

bed rot

[ bed-rot ]

---

verb (used without object)bed rot·ted, bed rot·ting.

1. Also bed-rot . to spend many hours in bed during the day, often with snacks or an electronic device, as a voluntary retreat from activity or stress: Feeling the need to bed rot doesn’t always mean you're depressed.The first time I ever bed rotted was when I was 18 and had just broken up with my boyfriend.

noun

2. the practice or an instance of spending many hours in bed during the day, often with snacks or an electronic device, as a voluntary retreat from activity or stress: People in certain professions may be particularly susceptible to bed rot because of how demanding their jobs are.There's nothing wrong with a good bed rot now and then.

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               Victor lay in bed and looked up at the ceiling. He knew he should not be in bed. It may have been Saturday, but he had things around the house to do. Heather would need his help with things. Besides, he would need to get food sometime. He rolled over, aiming to get out of bed.

               “What’re you doing?”

               Victor froze. Heather stood, arms crossed, in the doorway. She gave him a look that was equal parts annoyance, frustration, and concern. How she managed that, he would never know.

               “Getting up. There’s things to do. I need to deal with lunch, at least.”

               “No. No, you don’t. Today, you don’t do any of that. Today, you stay in bed and let me take care of everything.”

               “But I—”

               “No buts. You park your butt on that bed and tell me what you want. I’ll take care of everything.”

               Victor groaned, but lay back down. It was useless to argue with her. She was too stubborn to relent easily. She sighed and sat down next to him.

               “Look, I know it isn’t easy for you. I know you like to keep busy. But after yesterday, you need this. You need to take a day off. Play some games, watch some movies. Do anything other than think about work.”

               “Yesterday wasn’t that bad.”

               “Vic, you damn near had a full-blown panic attack. I saw your mind start to snap. It’s a wonder you didn’t blow up and start screaming at people just for existing.”

               He wanted to refute that. But he knew she was right. He had wanted to chew his boss’s head off when he had gotten another person’s assignment plopped onto him. And while Heather was visiting on her downtime too. He was not in a good headspace after that.

               “I…Is just sitting here really going to help?”

               “For one day? No. For several days? Yes. Vic, honey, trust me, you need rest. And no, going to sleep doesn’t count. There’s a difference between sleep and rest. Hell, you barely get enough sleep, let alone proper rest. Sitting here doing nothing is just what the doctor ordered. And I do mean that literally.”

               “One of the benefits of being married to a psychiatrist, huh?”

               “Damn right. Now lay back down. Don’t think about work. Forget you even have a job. Just turn your brain off and do some of those mindless activities we used to do when we were still dating. Remember those? Actually fun things that didn’t involve risking a panic attack every day?”

               “Vaguely. Which I guess is the point, right?”

               “One of them, yes. Now just chill out and let me get you some lunch. And don’t let me catch you out and about. You need a day off your feet.”

               She stood and headed out of the room. She poked her head back in the doorway, but didn’t say anything, just to remind him that she was there. He chuckled as she disappeared. He sighed and closed his eyes. Maybe she was right. Maybe a day or two of letting himself unwind was best. He certainly needed it. Life would catch up to him eventually, but for now none of it mattered. 

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Mental health is just as important as physical health. Remember that and take a day or two to just relax and unwind. Let the stress of living go. At least for a little while.

Word: Quotidian

 

quotidian

[ kwoh-tid-ee-uhn ]

adjective

1. daily: a quotidian report.

2. usual or customary; everyday: quotidian needs.

3. ordinary; commonplace: paintings of no more than quotidian artistry.

4. (of a fever, ague, etc.) characterized by paroxysms that recur daily.

noun

5. something recurring daily.

6. a quotidian fever or ague.

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                  Mr. Everett Mann woke up just before sunrise. He knew it was just before sunrise simply because that was when he woke up. So far, he had never been wrong. And, sure enough, the sky was still dark out his window, but there were sure signs that the sun was coming up. Mr. Mann stretched and yawned as he got out of bed to get ready for his day.

                  It was the same routine every morning, so he was well prepared for it. Do a few morning stretches. Use the restroom, where he would brush his teeth and shower in addition to taking care of various bodily functions. Get dressed. Eat breakfast. And then he would sit down and begin his morning tasks.

                  These were done every day at exactly the same time, and he had done them so often that he could perform them with his eyes closed. Maybe not in his sleep, but he felt he was close to that as well. He sat at his computer and turned it on. The screen lit up with what Everett thought was a map. It seemed at first glance to be a map of the entire North American continent, but there were enough differences to lead him to believe that it was fictional. An extra bit of land here, a missing island there. Just a few little things. Florida being conspicuously absent had always been his guilty favorite.

                  He typed in the code given to him on his first day performing these tasks. He knew it by heart, as it never changed. The screen flashed red, and he flipped a switch on the wall near his desk. The screen turned yellow. He turned a knob on the desk exactly 90 degrees. The screen turned green. Then he waited.

                  He waited there for thirty minutes, an amount of time that he could count out in his mind with only a few seconds error. During that time, nothing happened. Just as nothing happened every day. He used to wonder if something was supposed to happen during his wait. He supposed that something could happen. He had a book in the desk drawer filled with things to do if something happened.

                  Sometimes he thought about what he would do if something happened. How would he react? Such an alarming change would surely take him a moment to process, and who knew if that would cause any problems? Well, he had been performing his tasks for many years now, and he had never seen anything happen on the screen during his thirty-minute wait. He was almost glad of that. After so long, change seemed off-putting and foreign.

                  With his daily tasks complete, Mr. Everett Mann stood. He shut the computer off and went about his day. He left his bedroom and headed off, to see what the rest of the day had in store for him. He imagined that it would be much the same as every other day. And for him, that was all he needed in life.

                 

   ********************************

   Hmm, I wonder what this could be about...

   No really, I wonder. I have no idea where I would go with this. 
   

Word: Weltschmerz

 

Weltschmerz

or welt·schmerz

[ velt-shmerts ]

 

nounGerman.

1. sorrow that one feels and accepts as one's necessary portion in life; sentimental pessimism.

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   Dilan was feeling numb. He knew he should be feeling something. Something like sadness, or even anger. And yet, he felt nothing. He saw everyone else around him. They were clearly feeling something. Many were crying. Others were trying to laugh off the sadness by telling stories and remembering.

   But Dilan could not bring himself to do that. He simply sat on a cheap folding chair, looking at a photograph. It showed him and his family, all gathered around for some event. A vacation, most likely. He could not remember which one, but everyone looked very happy, which was something. At least he had emotions then.

   Someone came over to offer condolences. He barely heard them. Something about “it being her time” and “she wouldn’t want you to be sad.” He had heard those and so much more a dozen times today alone. He gave a half-hearted acknowledgement of the sentiments and the person giving them left to find better conversation.

   He knew feeling like this was worthless. This sort of thing happened to everyone at some point. Death was just another part of life that one had to accept. Sure he could feel sad and mourn the loss, just like everyone else, but this? This complete emptiness? That was not normal. At least, he did not think it was. Even his father clearly felt something. The man was shaking like a leaf and holding a photo of her. His eyes were wide and free of expression, but the man was clearly feeling something.

   And yet, Dilan could feel nothing. Not happy. Not sad. Not angry. Nothing. His mind churned at the slow pace of a paint mixer as he thought about why. What was wrong with him that he could not bring himself to feel sorrow over his own mother’s death? It was one of the few things everyone could agree was terrible. That he was allowed to cry over and feel bad about. Nobody would think less of him for that. And yet…

   More people, relatives this time, approached him. Asked him how he was doing. What he was thinking. He was not sure how to answer them. Honesty seemed wrong somehow. Like it was disrespectful somehow. Disrespectful of her memory and those who actually felt something. So he gave a noncommittal half answer. Something about how he needed time to process everything. Like it did not feel real. It was not a complete lie really.

   As the others left him to his thoughts, he wondered if this was just how he felt now. Would this be his new normal? Maybe he would feel all that sorrow tomorrow, where it would hit him all at once and he would cry half his body weight. Somehow he did not think that would be the case, but anything was possible. He was not even sure if feeling emotions was better than this emptiness. Would he long for the return to nothing when his emotions did finally return? Well, for now, the only thing he could do was wait and see.

   ***************************

   Man, the Germans have a highly specific word for everything, don't they? 
   

Word: Pareidolia

 

pareidolia

[ pair-ahy-doh-lee-uh, pair-uh- ]

 

noun

1. the illusory perception of meaningful patterns or images of familiar things in random or amorphous data, as a face seen on the moon.

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               Jack was looking forward to turning his brain off for a few hours. Work had worn him out, and he was going to be very happy once he was able to flop on the couch and not move until dinner. When he got to his apartment, he found his roommate was going to force him to change his plans slightly. Ryan was already there, sprawled out on the couch with his laptop.

               “Hey man, hey. You gotta check this out.” Ryan said once he became aware of Jack’s presence. “I just found something that’ll blow your mind.”

               “Can it wait? At least until I’ve changed?” Jack was already dreading what was going to happen.

               “Uh, I guess? But this is huge. You’re definitely going to want to see this.

               Jack gave a non-committal grunt and headed to shed his work clothes in favor of something designed not to leave the apartment. It did not take long, but he contemplated not leaving. Dealing with Ryan was not something he wanted to do. But he knew it would happen sooner or later, and it was probably best to just get it over with. He rejoined his roommate, making sure to move as slowly as he could.

               “Okay, here, take a look at this.” Ryan said.

               He showed Jack a picture of the Devil’s Tower mesa. Then another, similar rock formation. And finally, a random tree stump. Jack groaned.

               “Ryan, don’t say it. Please, for the love of all that is holy, don’t say it.”

               “You don’t know what I’m going to say.” Ryan insisted.

               “Yes, I do. And you’re wrong. Mesas are not giant tree stumps.”

               Ryan recoiled in shock. “Yes, they totally are. I mean, how else can you explain the similarities between them? It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

               “I will remind you that you are not a geologist, a paleontologist, a botanist, or anything else that would allow you to know that. And everyone that is one of those things says that no, these rock formations are not, and never were, trees. I could go into the reasons why they aren’t trees, but that would take too long.”

               “Oh please. If so-called ‘experts’ are all you have, then you might as well have nothing.”

               “Your evidence is saying they look kind of similar, and literally nothing else. I’m going with the people who’ve studied this kind of thing for decades.”

               “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.” Ryan said, rolling his eyes. “I know one thing that you can’t deny though.”

               He called up several more pictures of rock formations, these roughly in the shapes of animals, or even people. He looked quite proud of himself.

               “You can’t deny these. They’re obviously giant petrified animals, giants and all kinds of things the world government doesn’t want us to know about.”

               Jack groaned. “Do you know what pareidolia is?”

               “Uh…no? Why?”

               “You should probably look it up sometime. It’ll really help you understand why you think these are anything other than pictures of rocks.”

               Jack did not give any more time for Ryan to say anything. He knew that would just lead to a large headache. He just wanted to relax, and that was not going to happen if he got into a debate with a  conspiracy theorist.   

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Conspiracy theorists are fun to watch. They get so much stuff wrong in such obvious ways that it's hilarious. I can imagine they're frustrating to deal with directly though.