Blanket Fort

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I am my own distraction tonight.  I have an idea about tomorrow and I will tell you about it if I wake up and actually do it because it sounds like a good one now when I’m newly ensconced in my pile of blankets and could drop off for sleep at any time if only I was due to make a post.

In all of the stress and worry over the job change, I have sort of glossed over some of the benefits in my own mind.  And today, having someone to drive in the snow, yeah, that’s a benefit.  Also, having a boss and co-workers who are not two minutes away and feeling judged if you don’t turn up precisely at the invisible bell, just the stress relief of that.  Just thinking about how I came home today and felt like, okay, I did work today and I did give a damn and I wasn’t bothered or pulled away from what I was trying to do.  Nice.  Good.  It was the first day that I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could get this.

What it means is that I can’t fall asleep at the wheel now.   Dragon Age: Inquisition is out next Tuesday and despite any plans, or ideas, or practical concerns, I know what will happen.  It is as predictable as a Sunday following a Saturday.  I will curl around it, fall into it, fill myself up with it and its story and its world.  And my other interests, including my own novel, will fall by the wayside.  Fortunately and unfortunately, this game is clocking in at 100 hours.  One hundred dang hours plus.  And for a girl who has to go to the office and does have to sleep, it’s not going to leave much room for sanity.  But I will at least pull my head once a day to be here and remind myself there is life outside of the screen.  There are goals and needs and processes at work that need attention.

I’m thinking that might be the time to talk about Italy which comes to me in flashes and feelings – my friend’s hard tile floor, listening to Answer Me This when I was wide-awake at 4am, the taste of the cookie after it was soaked in espresso, that slight lemon taste that lingered, the luxuriant mortadella encased in basic white bread that tasted so simple and yet, so perfect, the piercings on the homeless woman who changed three languages until she realized she could ask me for money in English before I frightened her with my despondent expression, the hotel room in Florence, this little perfect cottage that was just mine for one night and the way I felt as though I was sinking into some sort of private cloud.  Standing around the club with a lemon-flavored drink we didn’t have to buy, watching the Italian kids on the pull.  Dancing at my friend’s friend the DJ’s set like this was the sort of thing I was allowed to do.

It’s all right here, still right at my fingertips and I’m quite afraid that elves and snowy drives and crushes du jour will let this critical instance in my life become as forgettable as what I did seven years ago, on the last week in October.  Nothing of note, I imagine, but I don’t know for sure unless it gets put in this great chronicle of my strange existence.  So I promise you I’ll write it all down, get it all out, and then, stop worrying.

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