I should have done better…
That’s what I was thinking as I carried my coffee down the hall to sit down. I’m always writing my first sentence in my head, and it never ends up fitting on the page correctly when I sit down.
I don’t respond well to stress. I wake up fine when there’s nothing for me to do, when there’s nothing for me to hide from. It’s when I most can’t spend the time, can’t afford to fuck up, that I force myself to sleep late, reject calls on my phone, and wrap myself in blankets wondering if I’ll oversleep rather than just get up and make sure that I don’t.
What kind of fucked up disorder is this? Not that it matters, not that it needs a name. You don’t name livestock, you don’t name animals that you’re going to kill and that’s why I hate all of these named disorders and diseases. The minute you name it, it’s something you live with. There’s no cure, it’s just something you have. Let’s not name it, let’s just fix it. It will be gone and we won’t even remember what it was.
But I remember the name of every single one of my pets, and I loved them.
Not sure where this is going today, but I’m realizing that I never am and most likely never will be.
My dreams are grainy and scattered, like my vision.
So, you can touch type?
The boy to me, a while ago, in 20 fucking 21. Of course I can. Because I’m a literate adult. How do I live among these other people. I’m so glad that I have this skill now, because on the f and j are two raised bumps so that blind people know where to put their fingers.
It’s moving season, many of my friends are moving. It’s actually not a bad idea, but I already did it last year. Still, the deals are getting better, I should go on craigslist and see what wonders there are. I dreamed that I was helping people move wishing that I were moving too. I’m struggling to remember specifics, and I’m hesitating opening a quote because it might be lame – who cares if it’s lame?
The word hesitate made me realize that I haven’t written a single song tag. Yep, talk about lame.
The only thing I don’t want to do right now is quit this exercise. I lay in bed for almost 2 sleepless hours after rejecting a call that was probably important, and I shouldn’t let this anxiety go undocumented.
It’s weird, once one thing sets me off into anxiety, the entirety of everything is terrifying and I can’t do anything at all. I remember when spiders, the thought of spiders, would cause me to have panic attacks over errant threads, or even cracks in walls where spiders could hide.
You work because you’re afraid of going broke.
My academic friend. I’m afraid that I’m using him for emotional support. I wonder if he minds.
Not that it needs saying here, but I just figure I should keep my fingers moving and see what happens. It’s like playing ghostwriter with myself — and suddenly realized that there’s an entire generation behind me who will never remember the ghostwriter games that we used to play in class when autocorrect was a whole separate program that had to be run after typing a story. And when we all had to wait around to use the one class computer to type, even though most of us had our own personal computers at home already.
Somehow my coffee’s done, and I’m taking the out.