The weekend wasn't a good sort of weekend, and I'd provide a full accounting, only I have to be at my psychiatrist's office at 3:00 p.m. The very distillation of futility, that's what my partaking in the communions of prescription psychoactive meds has become. And yet I continue, for fear that going off my meds could make things even worse. Things can always get worse. You think otherwise, you're fooling yourself, kittens.
I'm still wrestling with this story that's due July 31st, and I've written about a thousand words (all on Saturday). I should also be getting started on Cherry Bomb
, and I should be getting started right this goddamn minute
....or a week ago. But I need to do some research in Boston that hasn't yet been done. Should have been done as soon as we got back from New Orleans, but I can't – no, I won't – deny that I've been letting things slide. Storms in my head put terrible dents in my resolve and in my work ethic and in my ability to behave responsibly. Also, yeah, I have to have the galleys for The Ape's Wife and Other Stories
completely proofed by July 31st (and that's an extended deadline, and, by the way, you can get the trade edition from Amazon for only $27).
I only want to go to the sea. Or go to the swelter of Alabama. Or lay beneath the night sky, far from the light pollution of any cities. Or stay stoned. Or go to bed and shut my eyes. Or be anyone
but who I am.
At -09, I live with the life I've made and the life that has been made for me.
Anyway, blah, blah, fuckity blah. Note that we'll be having a huge "comp copy" eBay blowout very soon. I have a story in an anthology, and I get two or three extra copies. And they pile up, cluttering my office, and they fill our storage units. So, I'm gonna auction off a lot of them. I'll sign the pages with my stories.
Now, time to brush my teeth, get dressed, ignore the mysterious and painful knot on the long plantar ligament of my right foot (likely an injury from my limp of the last few months – thank you, goddamn rotten feet – which I can call adding injury to injury, yes). Oh, Caitlín, it is so fucking unsightly to whine about one's health in public (yes, even in one's own
blog). So, stop. Get dressed, comb my hair, brush my teeth, ignore my disdain for doctors' offices, and let Spooky drive me to this appointment. I leave you with storm clouds over Hattiesburg, Mississippi, as seen from the window of our train, ~5 p.m. CDT, June 12th:( Collapse )