When I was 18 years old my mother was killed by a drunk driver. She died at the scene. The drunk died en route to the hospital.

I don’t know his name. I don’t know where he had been drinking. I think I remember that he was from Kentucky, but I’m not sure. See, he was dead, so I was denied a living face to put on my hatred and anger.

Looking back I can see that the anger was short-lived. I can also see that this was a very good thing.

I have seen people tear their lives apart looking for vengeance, justice, or closure. Anger is a slow poison. A lot all at once can make you sick, but you can recover. A steady dose, every day, year in and year out? That’s deadly.

It is my hope and prayer for the bereaved, for the families of the victims at Virginia Tech, that the fact that the gunman took his own life will be a blessing in theirs. I hope they can pass swiftly through the rage, before it can permanently scar them. I pray for them in their grief, that they may find solace and peace. I pray for their lost loved ones, that they may find peace in the next life. But mostly I pray for the angry today, that they may recover from that anger.

I banged out a week of comics today in a fairly non-stop seven-hour session. The inked buffer is at 61, a new high score, and included in that inking is the strip for June 12, 2007 (making for seven years of Schlock.)

Now I’m too tired to do anything else, and I’m feeling depressed about it.

DEPRESSED. New High Score plus Seven Years = Depressed. This is ridiculous.

I finished all my work for the day (and for tomorrow, truth be told) and I’ve rightfully earned a respite from work. I want to keep going, but I’m too brain-fried and hand-sore to script, color, or do any of the myriad “little” things that need to be done during the week. I should just kick back and relax for the evening, but I can’t. That kind of leisure so early in the week? Why, that’s akin to SLOTH, right there.

And reading the news doesn’t help much. Great. I can now add indignation, anger, and powerlessness to the depression. Unfortunately, their effects stack.

I’m not feeling sorry for myself, mind you. I’m just frustrated that I don’t seem to be wired to enjoy accomplishment. Not today, at any rate.

I finally got around to painting my Pyre Troll from Privateer Press. It was an ambitious paint-job, in that not only did I set out to paint flames and flame-illuminated effects for the first time, I also planned to do all the serious painting in one sitting.

Click for the picture

The local paper had a “Friday the Thirteenth” article in which I learned that fear of Friday the 13th is called paraskevidekatriaphobia. That word seemed long and unwieldy, so I did some searching, and sure enough, there is an alternative word: friggatriskaidekaphobia.

The word is shorter, it nicely concatenates “Frigga” (derived from the name of the Norse god from whom we get the english word for Friday) with “Triskadekaphobia” (the word for “fear of the number 13”), and when you say it you sound like you’re saying “friggin’ triskaidekaphobia.” That last is what makes me happiest. I have no fear of this day, or that number, and will cheerfully poo-poo such superstitions — especially if it makes friggin’ triskaidekaphobes uncomfortable.

I also step on cracks, break mirrors from time to time, and fail completely to knock on wood. Like right now. Friggin’ triskadekaphobes! Nothing bad is going to happen today that couldn’t just as easily happen on any other day. Aaaand here I am, not knocking on wood.

So… the word of the day is friggatriskaidekaphobia. Say it with a sneer!