Things have been dark lately — dark and funky. Not like a good Jamaican dub record from the late ’70s, either. I’ve been getting migraines in the middle of the night.

I feel sort of numb, like a deep cut that’s had a band-aid wrapped very tightly over its surface. When I sit still, things are sort of okay but moving around hurts like hell.

I have a good job and I’m surrounded by loving people but I can’t shake the terrible feeling that life is whistling past while I sit in the corner staring at a glowing screen. The seas are warming, ice is melting, and we’re all just pushing pixels around.

I know I’m not going to live in New York forever. At some point I’m going to have to — going to WANT to — go back to Virginia and help take care of my family. In the past month, four close family members have had some horrible health scares. One of them died. I feel removed from it all, not that my magical Superman doctor powers could help if I were down there, and I’d be miserable in Norfolk, VA — but I can’t help but wish I were on the scene helping out.

On the other hand, I just got here in July. My big fancy New York life has barely gotten started. But enough about that. The three paragraphs preceding this one have all started with “I,” a sure sign that I’m weeping salty tears onto my colon, crying the blues with my head jammed right up my ass.

This cartoon really put it in perspective for me. It’s from Cat and Girl, by Dorothy Gambrell. The image above is a cut-out from “Grace,” a cartoon that perfectly summed up my self-indulgent whinging and ended it all with a sweet, greasy ray of hope …