Snorting Coke, PMS, and How Not to Write a Book
Ah, yes! Here I am again! All 1.3 of you, up from my last positive estimate of 0.5 or thereabouts, be sad no more! Weep no more, my ladies! (or gents...but you get the callow picture).
I am going stark raving mad because the novel I was working on is trapped inside a hard drive of epically ancient proportions. This is tantamount to having your first born child trapped inside a cave somewhere with absolutely no way to get at them. The lack of writing is killing me, as is the entire situation. If I do not write, I slowly go insane. I am working on a screenplay, which is only helping marginally, and have enlisted a variety of help. Thus far, it appears that much more work will be needed, but I am confident that the book will be retrieved and months of hard work saved. Otherwise, I may be tempted to throw myself off the top of the Sears building. My, it's so high up here, Auntie.
I am also PMSing. The landlady of Bipolar Proportions is back from the hospital, which does not help with the PMS. I had a wee hope that she might stay there, or perhaps be escorted personally to the psychiatric wing, but alas, no such luck. She is back, and being more snarky. For awhile she was being kind, thus prompting me to hope that she might have adjusted her medication, but now we are back to My Angry Aura Needs to be Radically Adjusted Like Now but Gee, I'll Just Never Admit It 'Cause I'm Too Old To Admit I'm Seriously Whacked. I can feel this woman's vicious vibrations from a mile away. Yes, it's time to move, my wee, fairy folk!
As Oprah would say, we are not victims! Of course, this makes me look callow AND callous, but I was actually concerned she was feeling dizzy and had to go to the hospital. The cruel side of my nature simply wished she would decide to move in. Hey, I never said I was perfect.
In the meantime, cheese, chocolate, and reading everything under the sun is also helping somewhat. Last night I took out from the library's pretty nifty video collection Saint Elmo's Fire. Don't ask me why -- what a cheesy slice of strangeness! -- but not a bad little flick overall. Ridiculous, of course -- I cite the "Demi Moore calls up Judd Nelson and tells him that she's being forced to do coke lines with Arabs who won't let her leave their hotel room" bit -- such a typical problem for most post-college grads -- but the film is endearing nonetheless. But how weird to see these 80's films in the 21st century and to wonder God, do people really wear those clothes? Apparently so, my little octopuses!
I can feel my biorhythms failing to biorhythm, but that's OK. I feel like I am going to shoot myself out of a cannon if I can't write soon, although soon I will have far less time on my hands, thank God. Work = good. Unemployment = slow, sad, torturous hell. Especially if you are Type A. According to Women's World magazine, I am Type A! Gee, I never woulda guessed!
I wish you all stars to wish upon, suns to warn you, moons to howl at, and plentiful chocolate to munch on before a toasty fire. Bring the marshmallows, lose the guilt, and contemplate simpler times.
God bless.
I am going stark raving mad because the novel I was working on is trapped inside a hard drive of epically ancient proportions. This is tantamount to having your first born child trapped inside a cave somewhere with absolutely no way to get at them. The lack of writing is killing me, as is the entire situation. If I do not write, I slowly go insane. I am working on a screenplay, which is only helping marginally, and have enlisted a variety of help. Thus far, it appears that much more work will be needed, but I am confident that the book will be retrieved and months of hard work saved. Otherwise, I may be tempted to throw myself off the top of the Sears building. My, it's so high up here, Auntie.
I am also PMSing. The landlady of Bipolar Proportions is back from the hospital, which does not help with the PMS. I had a wee hope that she might stay there, or perhaps be escorted personally to the psychiatric wing, but alas, no such luck. She is back, and being more snarky. For awhile she was being kind, thus prompting me to hope that she might have adjusted her medication, but now we are back to My Angry Aura Needs to be Radically Adjusted Like Now but Gee, I'll Just Never Admit It 'Cause I'm Too Old To Admit I'm Seriously Whacked. I can feel this woman's vicious vibrations from a mile away. Yes, it's time to move, my wee, fairy folk!
As Oprah would say, we are not victims! Of course, this makes me look callow AND callous, but I was actually concerned she was feeling dizzy and had to go to the hospital. The cruel side of my nature simply wished she would decide to move in. Hey, I never said I was perfect.
In the meantime, cheese, chocolate, and reading everything under the sun is also helping somewhat. Last night I took out from the library's pretty nifty video collection Saint Elmo's Fire. Don't ask me why -- what a cheesy slice of strangeness! -- but not a bad little flick overall. Ridiculous, of course -- I cite the "Demi Moore calls up Judd Nelson and tells him that she's being forced to do coke lines with Arabs who won't let her leave their hotel room" bit -- such a typical problem for most post-college grads -- but the film is endearing nonetheless. But how weird to see these 80's films in the 21st century and to wonder God, do people really wear those clothes? Apparently so, my little octopuses!
I can feel my biorhythms failing to biorhythm, but that's OK. I feel like I am going to shoot myself out of a cannon if I can't write soon, although soon I will have far less time on my hands, thank God. Work = good. Unemployment = slow, sad, torturous hell. Especially if you are Type A. According to Women's World magazine, I am Type A! Gee, I never woulda guessed!
I wish you all stars to wish upon, suns to warn you, moons to howl at, and plentiful chocolate to munch on before a toasty fire. Bring the marshmallows, lose the guilt, and contemplate simpler times.
God bless.
posted by lakeofthelongsun72 at 11:09 AM
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