And I’m sick. Runny, plugged nose (funny how these two opposite things go together so well when it comes to the common cold).
I don’t know where it came from, but probably karma.
Probably fucking karma.
Fuckin’ karma.
Target: 900 words
Written: 201 words, novella: The Mungk
Reading: Hunter Of Worlds, C.J. Cherryh
Comics: 100 Bullets 45-48
Music: Never Hear The End Of It, SloanI’m not sure what was going on with Sofi, but it felt like she woke at least twenty times last night, moving around and cuddling up and pushing away and just generally moving around.
Plus, the LEDs on the new mini-splits we got to heat our house (which work great as coolers, less as heaters) seemed very bright. I don’t know what was going on.
Things conspire to rob me of my rightful rest.
Great, now I sound like some long dead hero or evil god in a fantasy novel.
Torak, am I.
Ironic that the guy writing a whole book on the darkness of night should find himself more disturbed by unrelenting blue light.
Target: 900 words
Written: 358 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: The Wishsong Of Shannara, Terry Brooks
Comics: Die 13-14, Once And Future 11-12
Music: Naveed, Our Lady PeaceI feel like my body is about to burst from my skin, and yet, the only thing I want to do is sit and stare blankly.
Being a vegetable seems cool to me, somehow.
I worry I might be a bad person; on the other hand, maybe I don’t give a shit.
Target: 900 words
Written: 328 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Club Dead, Charlaine Harris
Comics: The Wicked + The Divine 40-41, Die 1-2
Music: Use Your Illusion II, Guns 'n' RosesI’m tired of them.
I can’t take the pushing on my belly anymore. I had lost about a dozen pounds, but then, of course, we went away so I regained seven or eight, and now my belts, my shorts and even those that are just stretchy push in on my stomach and leave me feeling nauseous.
(Not to mention the blood pressure raise.)
Anyway, I hate going to the office; where are my comfy pants? My PJs? My board shorts with the elastics so old that they’ve lost most of their elasticity?
An elastic with no stretch; if that ain’t a metaphor for getting old, then I don’t know what is.
Target: 900 words
Written: 764 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Club Dead, Charlaine Harris
Comics: The Wicked + The Divine 38-39, The Wicked + The Divine: 1373 AD 1, The Wicked + The Divine: The Funnies 1
Music: Use Your Illusion I, Guns 'n' RosesSometimes, I think I have Parkinsons or some other truly debilitating disease.
I seem to lose track of my fingers, my legs stretch and flex without my volition and I can’t sit still.
It’s not ADHD; it’s uncontrollable muscle spasms or the inability to tell my fingers to hit the right keys, repeating the same mistakes again and again and again (as I did typing this).
I don’t know what’s going on or how to fix it. If I lose the ability to type, I lose the outlet of writing, which is a death knell.
My skin feels like it’s on fire and trying to leave at the same time.
Target: 900 words
Written: 662 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Club Dead, Charlaine Harris
Comics: The Wicked + The Divine 34-37
Music: Use Your Fingers, Bloodhound GangWe’ve got new beds coming today, and I’m praying it does for my sleep what a remote mountain lake does for my peace.
I’m praying to sink into oblivion and forget everything that exists.
Until, of course, the next time it does.
Target: 900 words
Written: 1276 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: The Happiness Of Pursuit, Chris Guillebeau
Comics: The Wicked + The Divine 14-16, Phonogram: The Immaterial Girl 3
Music: The Uplift Mofo Party Plan, Red Hot Chili PeppersAnd so I did. Let it all slide.
Everything but the writing and reading.
Meditation? Nope.
Exercise? Nope.
I even forgot to walk the dogs, and neither my wife or I noticed until it was bedtime.
Good thing we wore them out the previous couple of days.
Now, if only someone would allow me a day of rest.
My “sick” day, taken for rest, wasn’t exactly restful. I’m tired of the constant go.
I need hibernation. I need newness. I need to get laid.
I need to be out of this routine, and committed (in either sense of the word).
Target: 900 words
Written: 649 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: The Happiest Days Of Our Lives, Wil Wheaton (ironic, ain't it?)
Comics: The Wicked + The Divine 8-11
Music: Up On The Sun, Meat PuppetsAnd being behind.
I let stuff go off the rails yesterday. I could have done better, but I didn’t.
Blame it on lack of motivation, lack of sleep (another storm, another night up with Sofi Jo), lack of willpower, depression, hopelessness, fatalism, whatever.
But I shit the bed on everything but writing and drinking yesterday, so here we are.
Behind. In pain.
Pray for me, children. This headache shall not last.
Target: 900 words
Written: 1023 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Unholy Night, Seth Grahame-Smith
Comics: The Wicked + The Divine 4-7
Music: Up From The Catacombs, Jane's AddictionFuck it and fuck ’em.
My brain needs a break, so naturally, during my ONE DAY OFF, I have been tasked with cleaning the entire house, cutting the grass and taking dogs and cats to the vet.
What do people not understand about fucking REST?
Target: 900 words
Written: 671 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Unholy Night, Seth Grahame-Smith
Comics: Phonogram: The Singles Club 3-6
Music: Black Friday Rule, Flogging MollyLike this one.
Most of the time, I want to write about what I’m feeling, what I’m going through, and I know it comes across as probably depressing, or angry, or manic depressive, a bit bipolar.
I’ve never been diagnosed with anything, but that’s because I refuse to go, mostly. I suffer from depression, I know it, but like I said, nothing formal.
I went once to a therapist when I broke down at work and had to take some time off, but all he wanted to do was ask me questions about internet pricing. I wonder if he ever wondered why I didn’t come back, or why I was staring at him with abhorrent disgust on my face.
That’s a guy who should not be practicing psychiatry, not if he thinks an initial session should be to talk about how much bandwidth he might get at his place, rather than what brought me in that day.
So, that’s my experience with therapists. I’m sure there’s better out there, but fuck, who has the time or money?
That’s the thing this new touchy feely existence of ours forgets – it’s offset against the horror of unrelenting capitalism, which leaves us with neither the time nor the funds to be able to engage in any of the things they want to sell us, unless we’re rich.
And ain’t none of us rich, baby.
Target: 900 words
Written: 940 words, novella: The Mungk
Read: Unholy Night, Seth Grahame-Smith
Comics: Phonogram 5-6, Phonogram: The Singles Club 1-2 (if I ever need to point to a work of utter pretentiousness, the exact kind of bullshit clever art we should all avoid, this is it - never read fiction written by someone whose interface with music is critical instead of connecting.)
Music: Unsupervised, Mono Puff