Self-Doubt Is Extremely Attractive

So, I wrote something that poured out of me with great force the other morning after not being able to sleep. Insomnia coupled with early morning writing seems to be my magical formula for creativity, because it happened a few days before that, too. Of course, this is not sustainable over the long term if I want to become an old person who doesn't hate being old, and I'm kind of bitter about that. I would rob myself of sleep for the rest of my life if I could flow like that without destroying the body that carries me around.

my hand

Not only have I not figured out how to flow like that all the time, but, when I do, it paralyzes me for days and weeks afterwards. I get this idea in my head that what happened was merely an uncharacteristic paroxysm of some sort, as though I did not really have a hand in writing something that satisfied me.

Of course, I'm writing this now in between double fisting barbecue peanuts and buttered popcorn, because, although I had a hysterectomy well over three years ago, I still get to do the hormonal hula, and it's hard to see anything with clear eyes when I've regressed into an incarnation of my fourteen-year-old self, wallowing in self-pitying dysmorphia bouyed up by neck pimples and five pounds of water weight.

Let's all have a moment to weep over the fact that I couldn't get my wedding rings off without greasing myself up with butter this morning. I know. It's deeply tragic.

Also, I'm pissed at a bird that keeps singing like it's spring outside my window, because I've checked the weather, and he's a damned liar, I'll tell you what.

My father once told me that good writers could write under any condition, even in war zones. I don't know why he was giving me writing advice. He's a hockey player, and I don't think he's had to play hockey while a scourge of pimples overtook his neck. If he had, then he would be more understanding of my creative woes.

That's a lot of words to say wah wah wah send me a wahmbulance.

Pass the chips, please.