I think of some truly eloquent shit when I'm not set up to write.
I get here, and my mind produces the equivalent of what comes out of the sewers when it rains.
I know I need to write in order to get out of whatever it is I'm going through. It's been two weeks and whenever I look at my story I just want to barf all over it, but then again I always want to barf all over it. I can't connect with the people I'm writing about. It is almost impossible to believe that I breathed through them at some point.
I have so much to do that I'm not doing.
Of course, it's all stuff that only matters to me. While I'm at work, all I think about doing is coming home, being productive-writing, getting this goddamn photo project finished. But all I can think of is this rock in my heart. So what do I do? I blindly kick around my house, alighting once in awhile on my computer, force myself to start, then have to stop. If there's no love in what I'm doing, I can't really do it.
I hunger for the weekends, but only so I don't have to think about first afters and insurance authorizations. I always gear myself up for it-like, this weekend I'm finally going to organize all the Sam St photos, and then Saturday comes around and I just jerk off all weekend and feel guilty that I don't do anything. I try to tell myself that relaxation is a gift in itself, but I was never made to sit around at home and 'relax'. As John Lennon says (and a phrase I inject myself with every weekend) 'time you enjoy wasting, was not wasted.'
I know what you're thinking-"Rae, get off your fat ass and go do something. Walk a cemetery. Read a book. Get out of that room and GO. Stop waiting for someone to drag you out of it."
There's nothing anyone can say to me that I don't know, that I haven't accused myself of. I go through this from time to time, and right now it's really bad because the Armour is building up in my system. The fact that this Shark Week is megalodon worthy isn't escaping my attention, either. It will blow over in a few days.
Sid and I have a date to go to Melting Pot this Saturday for the Law Enforcement/Military night. Getting out of the house will do me some good. We're also getting our bottles of moonshine that Chas and J and Miss Nida brought back from Gatlinburg.
I need to be social. I know that's what's mainly causing my shit. I know that if I just get past the initial dread of hanging out with people, I'll be happy. I have never done well in isolation, and I'm sentencing myself to it like it's doing a damn lick of good.
I need to go get a haircut, a pedicure, a fucking lobotomy. Need to stop worrying about people that are using me, that don't want me around. For a week there, I had about six different people asking me things. If I knew all the fucking answers, why the fuck am I writing in this blog?
As they say on the commercial-I need a Snickers.
-Rae