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The House of Worry

Started by Cramulus, December 09, 2020, 01:32:34 PM

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The House of Worry
By Cramulus, Enki-][, and Rev OtherTrouble (known here as Themenniss)

St. Dog was unusually troubled. He spent his days tense and dense, anxiety soaking everything it touched. His suffering was on autopilot. One day, when he was thoroughly exhausted from arguing with his washing machine, he decided to seek out Cilantro the Sage, a Discordian Pope, for advice.

Having heard St. Dog's exhaustive list of the things occupying him--politics, social pressure, mortality, calories, his salary, calories again, the president, my phone keeps running out of batteries, capitalism, unbearable horniess, this stain on my ceiling, we're all going to die, bus fare is going up--Cilantro said, "Have you tried worrying about it?"


dull but sincere filler post



The House of Worry (part II)

"I HAVE been worrying about it," barked St. Dog. "That's just the trouble. I'm worrying all I can, all the time, but it's not helping."

"Maybe you should try worrying on purpose. I always worry better in my worry-house," said Cilantro the Sage. "It's at the top of that mountain," he said, pointing at the horizon. "You can use it if you like; I'm currently worry-free."

So, St. Dog took him up on the offer and began the long arduous hike. As he hiked through the third mile of thick forest, he began worrying about whether he would starve to death, but worrying wasn't feeding him and it was making him tired so he saved it for the worry house and ate a candy bar. Then, as he scrambled up the loose rock of a steep cliff face, he began worrying about falling, but worrying wasn't making his grip any better and it was tiring him so he saved it for the worry house and focused on getting his footing. Then, as he sat for a rest on a large rock, he began to worry about whether he would make it home before sundown, but this interrupted his rest so he saved it for the worry house and gazed at glorious vista.

Finally, after seven or eight hours of walking, St. Dog reached his destination -- a small outhouse near a clearing, stinking of feces and chemical disinfectant. He did not expect such a worry house, and his surprise jolted something inside him.

"Of course!" exclaimed St. Dog, "I can just CLEAN my bathroom!"

Exhausted by intentional worrying, he was now done worrying and had no use for the worry-house either.