I’m having a harder time than I have in a while. I’m feeling alternatively ranty and antisocial, stuck between wanting to vent at someone and wanting to just sit in a dark room and think about nothing. My head’s all turned around and I’m not sure what to do about working in the morning—besides taking a couple valerian pills in my purse and chomping down on them as soon as I feel the ceiling rushing down to meet me.
It was from Chuck Wendig’s blog over at Terribleminds where I learned that no matter how bad shit could get, no matter how fucked up shit gets, no matter how utterly shitfucked shit gets fucked as it were—you gotta keep working through it.
So I’m writing.
And cleaning my apartment compulsively. (Did I clean the fridge? Were that many bottles of kefir floating around when I left yesterday? WHERE IS MY SHIRT?)
I ought to be asleep right now, but there’s a security alarm blaring. A quick test of the air around me suggests that someone burned something that used to be either pork chops or steak. Since there are no clouds floating into my apartment I can assume that there is, in fact, no destruction risk. Which is good. But the smell of burning ex-meat is…yeegh.
I scrounged enough money out of the corners of my apartment to justify trying a supplement for my panic attacks—very important, since my therapist won’t give me anything stronger than what I’m already on for them. I personally thought that my case was made when the dick of a receiving nurse triggered me on accident—accidental—proceeded to make it worse—after I literally begged her not to do the thing with her hands that she was doing—and then positively shouted at me to sit down.
I felt like the smaller kid who gets blamed for the mishaps at home.
But even through all of that, I’m still writing. I’m only six pages behind on Script Frenzy now (I’m not positive how I managed that! Did I get a bunch of writing done and then brainzap on it?) and—most surprising to me—the apartment’s actually clean. Not clean as in “Well, I won’t break my neck now,” but real clean. I feel a sense of accomplishment over that. The place hasn’t been this clean since I got binned.
The alarm’s still going, so I’ll just get ready for when it shuts off. I can’t sleep with this racket, but I sure as hell can get ready for it. I’m having some kefir on ice and crashing out.