I'm repetitive. I'm repetitive. I'm repetitive.
A bad week.
First, my back decided to celebrate its annual Sacroiliac Hell Week, though admittedly it's been two years since the last big bash. Probably should be thankful for the longer gap than usual, but it's hard when you're hurting.
Second, the annual royalty check arrived, much smaller than the previous few years. Again I know the pattern: each edition starts big and fades after a few years. Again I should be thankful that I've been frugal and cautious in the fat years, so a lean year doesn't matter much. Still keeping 10 years in the bank, and SS can fill in the gaps if needed. But again it's hard to be thankful. Human perception always picks up the deltas, and a negative delta always hurts.
Finally, I noticed that the commenters at the Spokesman-Review had started using my comments as a source of snarky amusement, piling onto everything I wrote whether it was meant to be silly or informative. That was the last straw, or at least the only straw I could do something about
..... so I fired off a nasty Cancel My Subscription email.
My money won't make any difference to the paper; like other Satanic media, they are completely deaf to all feedback from mere local customers and readers. We are all Nazi rednecks in their "mind". They only listen to their super-rich Satanic Commiefag Good Buddies. Pointless or not, it's still satisfying to withhold money from an evil place.
After firing off the Cancel email, I realized it was a near-perfect repetition of a much earlier series of events that I'd forgotten. When I first moved here in '91, I subscribed to the local paper from habit. In '93, their universal venomous snarling contempt for every aspect of civilization riled me to the point where I fired off a Cancel My Subscription letter. (Snail mail back then.)
Again in 2011 I had a moment of good-citizen delusion and tried subscribing. Again it took two years for the ratshit to reach a combustible level.
The wording of both Cancel notes, 20 years apart, was nearly identical.
Must be a dormant circuit in my brain that gets triggered by this particular situation, and fires off one verbatim sentence every time it's triggered.