Apparently there’s no way to automatically transfer all my old posts over from Blooger, and I’ve got almost seven (count ‘em, 7!) years of sporadic commentary, mumbles and ravings stored up over there that I’m feeling sentimental about (hey, I NEED those quiz results from 2002 dammit). So this is gonna take a while.
I don’t know what it means either, that’s just what’s on my mind. I have an A & P final tomorrow night (Anatomy & Physiology) and need coffee to supplement my adrenalin freak-out. I’d rather have crafted a nicely rambling post about keeping a meditation journal, my plans for writing for a couple of hours a week and working out and getting healthy and drop some hints about the neato thingy I’m kidnapping TGP off to do/see/be at this coming Saturday (after finals) for an early XMas/Solstice/Holiday gift. But really it’s all about getting more caffeine into me so I can memorize all the muscles in the human body, including origin, insertion, and ennervation, before tomorrow night. This school thing is kicking my ass.
Cold sick flu thingy. Not pretty.
School starts in a few days. Pretty, but not if cold sick flu thingy ridden am I.
Going to Hawaii in ten days. Pretty, but not if cold sick flu thingy ridden am I.
Cold sick flu thingies tend to turn into walking pneumonia for me. Not pretty. Ugh more.
Not there yet, but looking forward to what she said whilst eyeballing the Celebrex…
After Great Pain, by Emily Dickinson
After great pain, a formal feeling comes
The nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs
The stiff heart questions was it he, that bore,
And yesterday, or centuries before?
The feet, mechanical, go round
Of ground, or air, or ought
A wooden way
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.
This is the hour of lead
Remembered, if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow.
First chill - then stupor - then the letting go.
You decide. Either choice is upsetting. I’m gonna go hide under my bed now.
No, it’s not the latest bumper sticker for my new car, it’s how I’m feeling… not that I wouldn’t like to sleep. In fact, I’d like to very much. Just seems like I can’t manage enough of it lately. All kinds of things in my head about that - I come from a line of people who don’t need more than 4-5 hours a night. I’m dating a guy who doesn’t need more than 5-6 hours a night. I need 6-8, depending on how much exercise I’ve been getting, how much the job has been eating my brain, how much pain I’ve been in with the knees and other crap I’ve been dealing with lately that I’ve been too grumpy to blog about (I have standards here… I believe that a good blog entry should have more than just a string of profanities in 7 different languages). If I’m writing and on a burn with it, I’ll wake up after about 6 hours all rarin’ to go and hit the keyboard, the notepad… hell, I’ll even scribble on the back flaps of a paperback if that’s all I’ve got close to the bed and pen (note to self, keep notebook next to bed for writing emergencies). I feel like a wimp. I should be able to get by on less sleep and function just fine. THEY all do it. Bastards.
*whimper*
So of late, I’m not punch-drunk, exactly. I just feel all muzzy and greyed out in my head, like a screenfull of static is playing an endless loop in my mind. Part of the exhaustion has been a new learning curve at the day job, part of it has been dealing with assorted and sundry physical stuff, and part of it has been wondering what to do next. I’m tempted to hole up in my apartment with 5 boxes of pizza, a couple liters of Coke, and my PlayStation and ignore everything, but since that would only get me even more overstimulated than I already am and would definitely not lead to restful sleep in any way, I’m thinking not. Charming an image as it is ;->
Maybe I need Provigil. Maybe I need more sleep. Maybe I need someone to protect me from the clowns in my head by beating me repeatedly over same until I pass out and thus get rest. Think I’ll get a triple latte instead. Hey, it’s a stopgap, and no post-concussion syndrome (BTDT - no thank you very much). And look ma, well-caffeinated, I’m writing! I even got a rhyme in there. Sorta.
So my own personal Buddha and evil twin Doselle lectured me in a kind and gentle yet firm manner Saturday - it was much like being consensually spanked. (Ever notice I start a lot of posts with “so”? So what’s up with that?) In essence, he told me that I have more energy and get more done than anyone he knows, and that I’m like an old-fashioned blender with only two speeds - Off and Puree. (Note: I’ve been in Puree mode for a while now.) That was the kind and gentle part of the conversation. Doe then told me that my blender will only hold so much stuff and I gotta stop putting more stuff into it until some of the stuff already in it is all properly pureed and can be poured back out into metaphorical jello molds or all the half-pureed stuff will start leaking out the edges and splatter everywhere and make a big mess, like it is right now.
My initial conclusion? Great, one more thing to add to my to-do list - get more metaphorical jello molds.
Or breathe in and out and let go of some of the chunkier bits that I don’t really need and that don’t go all that well with the other stuff that I do like, then take a bubble bath and a nap and read a good book - not necessarily in that order.
First, Warren Zevon (sleep well and sweet dreams), then Leni Riefenstahl (ding dong the witch is dead), who’s going to be next? ‘Tis a rumor that celebrity deaths always happen in threes. Some random famous old sci-fi writer would round out this trio nicely, not that I’d wish any of them ill or dead at all - just sayin’… it fits the profile.
Unfortunately, the cave I currently inhabit has phone lines and internet access and I can’t close all the windows up tight because the freshly painted walls and freshly refinished floors of my apartment are still outgassing and it makes me nauseous. So folks can reach me a multitude of ways. Mostly my fault because I keep answering the damned phone and checking my email, like I’m terrified I’m going to miss out on something if I don’t stay 100% available 24/7 (I have yet to see anyone try to sneak in through a window).
I’m beginning to think that not only will the Earth not fall into the sun if I’m out of communication with them’s what matter most to me for a while, but the Apocalypse won’t begin either. And I might feel a bit more human and approachable and less miserable and snappy and wound up tighter than a Scotsman’s purse strings. Then again, maybe not. Maybe I’ll just languish and waste away for lack of snarky interaction and head petting. Then again, maybe not.
Thing is, I’m really wanting to hide under my bed, except that my bed’s not high enough off the ground and I’d probably get squished. And there are dust bunnies. Ick. Maybe I’ll camp out in the bathtub instead. I can bring alcohol in there with me, and I don’t have to get all pruny ‘cuz I can also just not add water and instead curl up with the tattered old pink comforter I’ve been dragging around with me since I was twelve. My teddy bear, who’s been with me since I was eleven, can supervise to make sure I don’t drink too much and get my big toe stuck in the drain. And maybe if I stay in there long enough escrow on my house will close and it will be sold once and for all and then magically my divorce will be final too. And I’ll win the lottery. And lose 30 lbs and emerge sleek and toned with a perfect manicure and pedicure and a three-book publishing contract. And there’ll be peace in the Middle East once and for all. Okay, now I’m just being silly and out of touch with reality. Time for my vitamin B. Or more beer.