Self-Doubt Is Extremely Attractive

So, I wrote something that poured out of me with great force the other morning after not being able to sleep. Insomnia coupled with early morning writing seems to be my magical formula for creativity, because it happened a few days before that, too. Of course, this is not sustainable over the long term if I want to become an old person who doesn't hate being old, and I'm kind of bitter about that. I would rob myself of sleep for the rest of my life if I could flow like that without destroying the body that carries me around.



Not only have I not figured out how to flow like that all the time, but, when I do, it paralyzes me for days and weeks afterwards. I get this idea in my head that what happened was merely an uncharacteristic paroxysm of some sort, as though I did not really have a hand in writing something that satisfied me.

Of course, I'm writing this now in between double fisting barbecue peanuts and buttered popcorn, because, although I had a hysterectomy well over three years ago, I still get to do the hormonal hula, and it's hard to see anything with clear eyes when I've regressed into an incarnation of my fourteen-year-old self, wallowing in self-pitying dysmorphia bouyed up by neck pimples and five pounds of water weight.

Let's all have a moment to weep over the fact that I couldn't get my wedding rings off without greasing myself up with butter this morning. I know. It's deeply tragic.

Also, I'm pissed at a bird that keeps singing like it's spring outside my window, because I've checked the weather, and he's a damned liar, I'll tell you what.

My father once told me that good writers could write under any condition, even in war zones. I don't know why he was giving me writing advice. He's a hockey player, and I don't think he's had to play hockey while a scourge of pimples overtook his neck. If he had, then he would be more understanding of my creative woes.

That's a lot of words to say wah wah wah send me a wahmbulance.

Pass the chips, please.

My No Good, Very Bad, Crazy, Sore-Boobed, Stressed, Disappointed, And Sick Day

A couple of days ago, I just thought I was crazy because I am crazy. The early bits of autumn weather that start creeping in with the shortening days is usually a warning sign to watch my seasonal depression issues.

Then, my boobs started to feel like someone had been using them as mini punching bags, and my fingers bloated my wedding rings right off, so I thought I was probably just a little bit crazy with a whopping main dish of PMS.

But, then! Then, I freaked out because the floor was damp under my feet in the kitchen. Can you imagine? What horror. I yelled about how horrible that was that my feet had to actually touch damp floor until I realized that my crazy was getting kind of out of hand. I took stock of myself and realized that, while I was still just a little bit crazy with a whopping main dish of PMS, I was also really stressed out about a pap smear redo that I had been called in for. Being that I had a hysterectomy due to cervical cancer three years ago, my stress was pretty understandable.


This was my semi-casual funeral attire style choice
for my pap smear appointment today.

Then, I woke up this morning with my little bit of crazy, my sore boobs, and my stress and went down to my doctor's office, but guess what? She didn't show up, the little minx! So, I re-scheduled my pap smear for next week and added disappointed to my list of ailments.

Then, I went and engaged in some fantastic retail therapy, because I was a little bit crazy, sore-boobed, stressed, and disappointed, and I deserved it. I managed to spend a mere $127.29 on over $510 worth of clothing at The Bay. Wha-cha!

Then, I had to take two sit-down breaks on my way home, because I was suddenly not only a little bit crazy, sore-boobed, stressed, and disappointed, but now I was also SICK, because why not throw more really crappy stuff into my crap bag of a day? I sat on benches and tweeted about nothing and huddled under a sweater and secretly snuffled tears into my collar, and I absolutely did not tackle a strange man for his cigarettes when he walked by sucking on that smoke that bathed the breeze in its sweet, sweet deliciousness.

I've decided to spend the rest of today blowing my nose and watching crap television while snorting vitamins C and D through a dollar bill, except not really, because I am a normal person who swallows them in pill form with water.

The End.