Evening, because it was easier to be out under the stars than the blue sky. The brutal cold is back. And I want to be anywhere that hasn't been ravaged by this fucking winter.
Here's another phrase I'm seeing a lot that I absolutely loathe: "First world problems." Which seems to be used to dismiss any complaint short of imminent fucking death.
I was back on the Seroquel last night. Not taking means shitty sleep or hardly any sleep or both. And my concentration was no better yesterday, despite the speed at which Seroquel is flushed from the body. I don't know why I'm not more willing to blame the winter for my difficulty writing, even though, in this moment of honesty, I will acknowledge that it's almost certainly the culprit. Because there's no pill to make it go away? Probably.
The year is almost two months over, and I've had not one truly good day.
Yesterday I wrote a paltry 664 words. "Chewing on Shadows" is progressing so slowly I can't tell whether it's coming out okay, beyond my ability to judge sentence-level quality. And if that sentence didn't make a whole hell of a lot of sense, what the fuck ever. I know what I mean. Were I ever to teach a writing class, I would instill in my students the value of "I know what I mean."
Deep In Loathing,