I’m going to ignore the fact that someone’s mad at me at work for blowing them off like…a lot…and they sent me like a FINAL NOTICE I HATE YOU email that I am also ignoring.
I’m going to ignore the fact that my throat is burning.
I’m going to ignore the fact that I have two laptops on my bed and a swirl of ideas taking over my mind and a cat sitting here, thinking her terrible cat thoughts.
I’m going to ignore I’ve got a 7am breakfast at the meeting tomorrow where said pissed-off person will probably be.
I’m going to set all of that aside and write.
Just not yet.
Because I’m not going to wedge it in here. I don’t feel quite right, obviously, but I have my mandate. Excuse me while I take note of the self-savaging pun.
I feel overfull of I’s. I feel very in need of a vacation, of an escape, of a duck and cover worthy explosion. I think everyone in my story is quite dour and I don’t know how to fuck them up and make them suddenly feel animated and sarcastic and print-worthy. Nothing has to begin with me, but everything does, you know?
Like this damn diet. It was fine, I adhered today, but I am pretty sure I’m forgoing the exercise tonight. I think I’m allowed the break if I’m also going to try and get a piece together for writers group tomorrow. I have been focusing so much on just doing the outline, top to bottom, to knowing what’s going to happen so that I can have a framework to start attaching the pieces I do have.
Still, I feel fat-ter today, as I glance back over papers I wrote on Emily Dickinson and Poststructuralism and “snow language” and the red and the white ten years ago. I am flashing back to those feelings as I strode across campus, my second to last semester which was a semester before my friends, though most of them had already pulled away and made other plans and other living situations and I remember almost passing out from low-blood sugar in my dorm. I remember thinking that I was going to get out of there and be back to normal, I’d set my whole lonesome heart to rights. I remember when I found out I was going to China. I remember the grilled ham and cheese sandwiches. I remember a few parties, a few games of shuffleboard, a few sunken hopes. I remember a place where I might have been something, and I couldn’t find a way to let myself transcend.
10 years later and I can’t open the door. Can’t graduate.
A cheesecake is missing and I didn’t eat and she didn’t eat it and where did it go?
I have to call the therapist. I have to do a lot of things and I don’t do them and it comes back and fucks my life over.