i went analoging ~ what did you do?

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July 21, 2008

I was AFK (Away From Keyboard) for several days, nine days to be exact. I managed twenty-two days of writing in a row before I went awol. I can’t decide if I should start over (since I didn’t do any writing - with pen and paper the old-fashioned way as I intended) or if I should pick up where I left off.

I’m voting for the latter since it’s less punitive and it recognizes my accomplishment. So, today will be Day 23 and moving forward not looking behind.

I was in the mountains of Pennsylvania about two hours North and West of the Poconos. This is where my father was born and raised. My family was there for our annual reunion. We’ve been doing this for as long as we’ve been in the States. My father built a log cabin in the town where he was born. This was the first year we were there without my mother. Everyone expected a more peaceful and enjoyable few days. It didn’t work out that way. We were all still miserable and I am searching for the reason why.

I cleaned out the cabin of bags of pillows and blankets and clothes my mother had collected. There should never be that much fabric and stuffing laying around in an enclosed building in a dark wooded and damp area. I found ten unopened toothbrushes and unlabeled pills. The sleeping loft is now more breathable and I don’t have to be afraid of scurrying little critters sneaking around while I sleep.

I’m tired of complaining. I’m tired of yelling and whining and criticisms. I’m tired of people unable to be responsible for their own entertainment. If I don’t get some alone time soon, my head might explode. I don’t want anyone to want anything from me.

I have no idea where I was going with any of this. If you’ve read this far, I’m sorry because this just sucks. Tomorrow, I will go back to the story I started in the last two entries, the one about the killer tea kettle. Go back and read those instead of this claptrap. I could dedicate myself to keeping alive all forms of archaic sayings.

I bet you haven’t noticed that I started every paragraph with the letter ‘i’. Go back and check. That wasted a second of your life. The next one hundred words will not be any more entertaining than the last four hundred so go do something else. i won’t mind. When I’m done here, I’m going to google ‘why did my family gathering go wrong’ and see if I get some help figuring out the problem. It really bothers me that nine people can’t have a few enjoyable days together.

I didn’t even take any pictures while I was on my really enjoyable adventure so the one above is from where I was but it’s from quite a few years ago. No reading, no writing, no pictures, no relaxation, no good conversation, no sightseeing - yeah, I’m calling my five vacation days a total bust.

don't look at a gift horse

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Huddled in the corner, Joshua Sweet burst out with a wild string of expletives.

“Don’t touch it,” he said between gasps. “I saw things.”

Simon Thunder shook his head. Joshua didn’t scare easy. In their three months together and the one month previous, he had never seen Joshua lose control, not even when they were alone together in the bedroom.

The kettle, old, dented, rusted, lay across the room. Simon felt an urge to pick it up each time he looked at it. He forced himself to check the wrapping instead. Purposely ignoring Joshua and the kettle, he read the labels on the brown paper that had covered the box the kettle came in.

Joshua’s name. That’s why he opened it. But Simon’s address and the post mark for the town of Sea Shore Side. Simon’s hometown, the place he was born, the place he had spent his first thirteen years. The place he hadn’t been to in more than fifteen years. No return address, though. He shook out the paper. He tipped over the box. Nothing. No notes or cards or any clues as to who had sent the package or why.

He’d consider it some stupid and pointless practical joke if it weren’t for Joshua still trembling on the floor. Simon noted that he only felt compelled to pick up the kettle when he looked at it. When he forced his gaze away from the pot, the craving to possess it faded and left him. He grabbed his dark sunglasses. They were UV 400 rated with a special coating that minimized color distortion and helped pick up on magical signatures.

“Danger, Will Robinson!” Simon laughed. The Robot from Lost In Space flashed through his mind. While the warning was comical, it was also deadly serious. The kettle’s aura pulsed in sharp, spiky reds. Not good. No wonder Joshua continued to hyperventilate. Simon pulled on his leather gloves that were lined with a para-aramid synthetic fiber. He hoped they’d be enough to protect him from whatever magic had infected Joshua.

He felt a tug as he bent to pick up the kettle. He wanted to pull off his glasses and gloves. He was just able to resist the urge long enough to put the pot back in its box and close it up. As soon as it was contained in the cardboard, the magically induced longing to physically possess it disappeared. Simon suspected some sort of Earth-based magic since the natural material of the box dampened the magic more than the synthetic materials of his sunglasses and gloves.

Now that the magic was contained, Joshua was calming down. His breathing was more regular and he was able to stand, with the help of the wall behind him.

“I saw my own death.” Joshua gulped. “It wasn’t pretty.”

I put my arms around him. We sat on the couch in silence until the sun’s rays hit the balcony’s windows. Evening was upon them. Joshua’s stomach grumbled. He put his hand on his belly.

“I’ll be dead within the month.”

the sea shore side spirit

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The coastal town on Sea Shore Side has a secret. The current one hundred and fifty residents are the latest generation in ten generations to keep things under wraps. Two hundred years ago, the original settlers began a long series of events that would haunt them and their children for all eternity. Unless the dead could come back and change history.

Simon Thunder had a perfect life. He lived in the city in a modern high rise condo. He drove a classic Cadillac convertible, only on the weekends as he had a driver that took him wherever he needed to go during the week: his office, his gym, the expensive restaurants he frequented and his sexy young boyfriend’s apartment. Joshua Sweet was the frosting on Simon’s cake of life.

They met at work where they both swung swords in their duties as City Constabulary. Joshua was tall and lanky and moved like water. Simon had a hard time concentrating when they were sparing during their practice sessions. The first time they struck swords, Simon had held back. He mistakenly thought his taller, bigger build would easily overpower Joshua. But the younger man had a keen sense of his opponents weaknesses and he flowed in and around Simon’s body making him work harder than he had in years. Only Simon’s vast experience kept Joshua’s sword from making contact.

Not usually an impulsive person, Simon fell in love with Joshua that first day but he didn’t do anything about it. All of his former relationships were with women. He hadn’t clue how to approach Joshua. Luckily, Joshua wasn’t shy. He asked Simon out for a beer to discuss some moves and the rest was history. They had been seeing each other for three months.

Saturday morning, while Simon was in the shower, the doorbell to his condo wrang. Joshua answered and received a package from a courier service. Simon came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel hoping for a quick tumble only to find Joshua passed out on the floor, brown wrapping strewn around him, a copper kettle held to his chest.

Simon rushed to him, knocking the kettle away. It flew across the living room. Simon listened for breathing. It was faint but there. Simon slapped Joshua face. No response. He pulled the flowers Joshua had gotten him out of the crystal vase. They followed the kettle. He tossed the water on Joshua’s head. Joshua sputtered, spitting water out of his mouth and wiping it away from his eyes. He sat up. He grabbed Simon’s shoulders and shook him.

“You didn’t touch it, did you?”

“What happened?”

“I took the package from the delivery woman.” Joshua took a deep breath. He let it out in a long, slow exhale. “I took it to the side board to leave for you and I couldn’t let it go.” He shook his head, his long wet hair sticking to his cheeks.

“I don’t understand.”

“I couldn’t resist. I ripped off the wrapping and opened the box. I reached in, grabbed the kettle like it was the Holy Grail and passed out.”

I love exercise and other lies I tell myself

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I almost had myself talked out of walking this morning. I got up later than usual. Seven thirty instead of my usual four or five that I get up during the week. I was home alone so I thought I catch up on some sleep. I really like sleeping. I’ve mentioned this before. I have great vivid dreams of exciting adventures and since I know how to do directed dreaming things almost always go my way. I’m a bit of a control freak, so any place where I get what I want, is a good place. Hence, my overwhelming joy in sleeping, napping, having a bit of a snooze.

I need an hour and two cups of coffee before I’m in any way functional, so it was eight thirty or quarter to nine and I began telling myself how I had other things to do and it was hot out and if I walked I wouldn’t be able to do anything else for the rest of the day. Oh, yeah, I’m good with the negative talk.

Then I felt guilty because my daughter has an UP band and we can see each other’s status and she would ask me where mine was. I started with the negative reinforcement or inducements or whateves which would have surely caused me to sit my ass down and not move an inch. I decided instead to make nice nice with me.

Reciting the benefits I knew I would reap if I managed to get over my initial hurdles, I pulled on socks, pants, bra and shirt. I got dressed, in clothes, on a Sunday, yes I did. I knew I would clear my mind of all of the junk that collects there overnight. I’d come up with some good ideas ~ always a nice bonus. I’d warm up my left knee and my hip joints. I’d sweat out toxins. Once I was done, I would feel better physically and I’d be proud of my accomplishment. Only I know how truly hard it is to get me moving. When getting out of bed each morning is a major victory, walking out the door is like climbing Mount Everest.

Before I start, I get grumpy face. I can feel myself scowling and I can feel the tension growing in my neck and shoulders. I build this fantasy in my mind that exercising is like slogging through a clogged sewer drain, sort of like the scene in which Andy Dufresne escapes from Shawshank Prison. If he knew how disgusting and smelly it would be, I bet he wouldn’t even try. That image is not easy to get over.

Since I know, intellectually, that once I get going, I actually enjoy walking, I need a new picture, a new vision of the walking experience. Something light and musical and rhythmic, like dancing or maybe a butterfly flitting from one beautiful flower to another, collecting pollen and nectar. Maybe I can be light as a fairy. I’d like to be a fairy.

brain food

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I’m going to be studying marketing. Specifically, I’m going to be learning about digital marketing and analytics. I’m changing course at work. I won’t be needed in the traditional financial functions so I am swerving into getting our brand out there and bringing in more business. I’m good with getting new information into my brain. I love learning new things.

I’ve signed up for two courses from the online college course hub, Cousera. They offer free classes from some big universities. They are non-credit earning classes but the information you get is good. If you want to pay a nominal fee, like eighty dollars, you can get a certificate, but I won’t need those. The classes I’m taking are Marketing in a Digital World and Digital Analytics for Marketing Professionals: Marketing Analytics in Theory. Both are in the Digital Marketing Specialization and are from the  University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign with Aric Rindfleisch and Kevin Hartman respectively.

What’s going to be really great is that I can do the courses while at work. My boss is excited that I’ve taken the ball on this and decided to learn what we need without anyone asking and that it won’t cost anything except my time, so when I told him, he insisted I do it on company time. I like my boss.

I signed up for the classes last night. They are “at your own pace” rather than with set starting dates and weekly goal dates. They are four weeks long with an estimated six to eight hours of course and study time needed each week. While looking for the word “deadline” (required looking online for due date related words and then going to do some dishes before my tired brain regurgitated the word I wanted - this shit pisses me off no end), I found a website that outlines the project management tasks and timelines, so I guess everything has a good side. I’ve totally lost track of where I am in this tale. Oh, yeah, no deadlines. That makes life a little easier although deadlines are handy if you are procrastinator like I am, so we’ll see how it goes. I’ve not take a self-directed class yet.

It’s good I can do this while at work because I’m exhausted. I did not want to get out of bed this morning. I’ve been getting up each day this week at four so I can get everything done that I need to get done. My To Do list is huge. I’ve put it all on stickies and I’m going to use a Science Project Display Board as my planning board. I’ve done loads of things this week and have a pile of completed stickies. I put the start date in the top right hand corner, write in the task and then put write “done” when I’m done along with the date I’ve finished. My little pile of done tasks feels good since I haven’t done much of anything for about a year. I was feeling quite out of control. It was so bad that I couldn’t even manage to write lists, something that I normally do all of the time. I can go through a steno pad a month when I’m in my right mind.

It’s seven. Time to go walk.

r u artsy fartsy ~ wanna b ?

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I think everyone is artist - read creative. There are many ways to express your creativity and one is not better than another, just different. People draw,paint, write, crochet and knit, write code, make videos and take pictures, build furniture, put together parties, cook. All of these activities can be creative and artistic. When you think outside of the box, intentionally and attentively produce something you are being artistic.

I’ve decided to plan a project each month to produce something creative that is intentional and a little off beat. I’ll develop some random guidelines to follow as a road map along the way. Right now, I’m not doing anything. One project a month will get me 12 different pieces of art a year without too much stress. Creating things with your hands is a great stress reducer. It takes you out of your self, out of your comfort zone, and into a place where you can contact the real you, that essence that lives on. This is a way to add your thoughts to the collective conscientiousness. Check out Carl Jung ~ it’s a thing.

I realize I’m getting started late and there’s only 23 days left (3 weeks if that makes you feel better) and I’m booked for a week in the woods during that time period, but this project should be easy.

Feel free to join me each month. Then in the first week of the following month, we can post pictures of what we created. I’ll do a post of my finished item. Then, you can do links to your sites (blogs, websites, facebook page, Instagram, wherever you may live) in the comments or email me a picture and I’ll post it here.

The idea is to let go and have fun. Color outside the lines, paint the sky green or add peppers to ice cream (all of these things are things, they really are.)

Here is the breakdown for July’s project. These are just things to get your ideas flowing. Follow them exactly or go completely off grid. Either way I’m good and so are you.

Technique: Collage ~ from the French and it means “to glue.”

Theme: Nature

Subject: Summer

Guidelines: Include at least two media or different types of materials and glue.

My project: I will be using wire screening, tree bark and beer cans along with paper and glue. It will be called Anti-Crypsis.

Other ideas:

    *** mount photographs you’ve taken on a piece of driftwood

    *** produce a video of paper dolls you made performing a skit

    *** cut words and images from magazines and glue them to a cereal box

    *** draw different mini pictures and glue them into bottle caps

    *** make birds and butterflies out of grocery bags to hang on a mobile

    *** make a finger painting highlighted with gemstones

    *** take an old umbrella and decorate it with beach toys

    *** use the matchbooks, brochures and beer bottle labels you’ve collected from trips on an old pair of swim trunks

    *** make a terrarium with things you collected at the beach

    *** take a picture of an action figure with an origami chicken

Got enough ideas?

Ready. Set. Begin.

i have a plan to plan a plan

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I don’t wanna. I don’t feel like it. Leave me alone. I want to go back to bed. I hate this. Why have I set this task for myself? I have nothing to say. This is not working. Can I write the same word 500 times? Time is running out. I’ve decided I will walk every morning before work starting today. I’ll walk on the weekends, too. I need to move my ass and if I do it in the morning, I might get it done. I used to walk every morning and I felt better and was a good weight. I’m running out of morning. There’s only a certain amount of time that can be considered first thing in the morning.I hate doing stuff. There’s too much stuff to do.

I have two projects I need to get done very soon. There’s the collage I want to make from tree bark and beer cans. And there’s the olde English tavern sign I want to do for our backyard bar and basement bar. Yes, we have two bars. I am also planning a painting done with my fingers while blindfolded. I’m also painting my desk which I need to continue and the walls and ceilings of my office slash studio. The crab apple wood I’ve been drying for several years are ready for my runes as are the branches I have drying for wands. I’ve been thinking of doing a more traditional landscape painting for my living room of a view of the Delaware River which includes a bench and a Weeping Willow. The view is from down the street from where we live. I’ve got to sew some posable rabbits that I’ll dress in costumes and use for Rabbit, Rabbits each month. I’ve got Purdie Pyrate cartoons planned for each month, too. I’ve got ideas for ornaments, cuffs, dolls and  eggs which will cover the seasons. Oh, and there’s the doodles I want to do.

I am in the process of getting all of these ideas on sticky notes so I can make a planning board. I feel like I got ten years left in which to get all of this shit done. It’s all making my elbows itch. Do your elbows itch when you get agitated? Is that weird?

I feel like I’m leaving some projects out. Well, I have mentioned the novels I’m working on. I’ve got to get them edited for publication and send them out in the world. And there’s essays that I want to write.

The only way to do all these things is to make a physical plan because I can’t keep focused with it all in my brain. Making a planning board is the first step in bringing it all into the real world.

Step One: Individual Idea stickies including initiation dates

Step Two: Setup board in my office

Step Three: Sort projects by types (?) and place on board.

Step Four: Organize by priority

Step Five: Work on one project at a time (ha) until complete which involves breaking them down into small pieces

the sins of our fathers

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The cold seeped into Cyn’s body. The stone floor she lay on was a poor bed. She woke exhausted. Each morning required that she get up and move around to warm up her body and chase away the aches from the night. Once she was awake and moving, her groans only heard by the mice running off from their nightly foraging in the kitchen, she set more wood on the embers burning low in the kitchen’s hearth. She swung the large cast iron pot over the flames to heat water for the morning ablutions of those above floors. They’d remain abed for hours yet.

Peeking out through the shutters, Cyn watched the chicken in the moon drenched yard peck for worms. Tossing them corn would be her second task of the day. She’d pluck warm eggs from their nests for human breakfast while they ate their own breakfast. Cyn often wondered if the chickens knew their eggs were gone when they came back into their coop. Wondered if they mourned their missing offspring. She never ate eggs. Not because of this wondering, though, but because she wasn’t allowed.

She ate creamy, runny soft eggs as a child. Things were different now. What she once took for granted as hers belonged to someone else. She had a new understanding for those who had washed her nappies, darned her stockings and prepared her bread and honey. Her stomach grumbled. She had at least an hour to go before she’d get some thin gruel.

Removing warm eggs from her apron and placing them in the cook’s favorite wooden bowl, Cyn thought about running away again. She didn’t know where to go, though. She had never been anywhere except her father’s holdings. He had told her stories of far off fantastic places when he came home from his excursions. He swore he’d always come back for her but he wasn’t ever coming back. He was dead and she didn’t know what was true anymore.

The family lands were heavily mortgaged and she had no living relatives. The property was sold along with her freedom. She went from pampered pet to destitute drudge in a single breath. She took a deep breath. Dwelling on what she didn’t have wasn’t helping her.

The next three hours went by quickly. She lit the bedroom fires, filled water pitchers, gulped down bland porridge, milked a cow and plucked herbs from the garden. The sun was up as were all of the servants. And she was off to perform her favorite summertime task.

She grabbed her basket and went in search of berries and mushrooms. This time spent in the woods was her saving grace. She suspected that the cook gave her this task because Cook felt sorry for her. She still remembered Cyn as the precocious mistress everyone doted on. While some of the servants took pleasure in Cyn’s downfall, Cook went out of her way to ease some of Cyn’s hardships when she could. Cyn headed for her favorite spot in the woods.

hope is a four letter word

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All I can say is that I keep coming back. I don’t give up easily. Not sure why. I do believe there is a solution to every problem, you just have to keep trying. The constant struggle is tiring but I don’t know how to give it up. I wouldn’t make a good Taoist. I can’t even envision what the opposite of struggle would be.

It might involve staying in bed all day. I do like sleeping because my dreams are so vivid and entertaining. I learned how to direct my dreams many moons ago so I can often go on scripted adventures to places I’m interested in with people who enjoy the same things I do.

I once went to an alpine cave, high above the tree line. There was a roaring fire, overstuffed armchairs and spiked hot chocolate. I was joined by quiet companions. We sat around reading together. At night, we went out on the mountain and touched the stars.

Loneliness and being alone are rarely problems for me. I have no problems entertaining myself. And I do need lots of alone time to recharge. There’s too much noise everywhere. I took at test once on reading facial microexpressions and scored quite high. You’d think that would be a good thing but I think what happens is I can’t reconcile what I see in people’s faces and the words the speak. The dissonance is too disconcerting. It takes way too much energy to negotiate the social arena. And god forbid I try to do it when I’m tired. That’s a major disaster.

I can go great periods of time alone and happily so. There’s always something to do, something to think about. It’s usually curiosity that gets me up and moving. I’m very nosy. I need to see what other people are doing. People watching is fun. I like sitting in a back corner and checking out interactions, listening to conversations. Just call me Peeping Tom.

Today’s topic was hope. I don’t think I have come anywhere near helping someone have hope. I’m pretty sure this whole post is very depressing. I do keep hoping that by some action of mine I’ll create some beautiful fantasy land where everything is perfect. Of course, that would require that I had any idea what a perfect world would look like. And I don’t.

There wouldn’t be any bugs. Just thinking about bugs make my skin itchy. I like Winter and most people like Summer. I like the changing seasons. I wouldn’t have to do dishes, or laundry or cook dinner. I wouldn’t get bored.  People would tell me interesting and fascinating stories to keep me entertained with lots of jokes. I like jokes. I could drink citrusy frozen margaritas all day from morning to night and take naps in between. There’d be no time or schedules or To Do lists although I really like lists. Practical things would magically get done. I couldn’t have people waiting on me or working for me because I’d feel bad that they weren’t having any fun. See how hard this perfection thing is?

who do you think you were

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Gilded Tarot by Ciro Marchetti

I just took one of those fb quizzes. It was going to tell me what I was in my past lives. Seems I was a warrior. I’m thinking they are on to something⸮

When my daughter was young, I was in my second round of college. One of my professors offered me a job which I took. This job consisted of ten years of struggling with the polar opposites that have always defined my life. He was a religious, married man who had a girlfriend who turned out to be someone from my past. She was my age (he was 10 years or so older), from my parents’ social circle and we went to high school together although we never associated with one another at that time.

The girlfriend and I became friends. Not really but I can’t find a better word for what we were. I tried to mold myself into that concept but ultimately it didn’t work out. I think I’m friendship incompetent, illiterate, dysfunctional, disabled. I’ll look for a better word for that later.  

Anyway, my boss’ office was located in a small town in the pine barrens of New Jersey. One of those little eclectic touristy places with small shops and unique businesses. Around the corner was a metaphysical bookstore. The owner gave classes on different things. Girlfriend wanted to learn how to read Tarot cards. She fancied herself esoterically inclined. She was afraid to go alone, so she finagled me into going with her. Since my great-grandmother on my mother’s side read cards for her village’s witch, I decided to go along for the ride.

Girlfriend lost interest after about three classes as she so often did. I continued on. Seems I had some skill with the process. I went on to read cards at the shop on weekends for some extra cash. None of this really matters for the original point of this little ditty.

One of the things I learned to do was past life regression readings. None of my past lives were very glamorous. I wasn’t anyone famous or important. Like the one woman who insisted she was Marilyn Monroe in a past life. We couldn’t convince her this wasn’t possible because she was born before Ms. Monroe died, though. Maybe she was anticipating the alternate universe craze. Anywho…

In one life, I was a girl born into a poor family during the middle of the 14th century in central Europe. I had a mother and father and an older brother and older sister. It was during the Black Death and we were on the move, walking, carrying what little we had on our backs, in search of a better life and running from the sickness.

Since I was a girl (not the pretty one) and the youngest and puny and rather quiet (which translated into not too bright at the time) and resources were scarce, my parents decided to leave me behind so the rest of them had a better chance at survival.

I awoke one morning to find my family had snuck away from me during the night.

food fantasies

My favorite food is my mother’s spaghetti. Spaghetti noodles topped with a sauce more beefy than tomatoey. Definitely not Italian in nature. At least, not that I know of. My mother was Austrian which I think has a more meat heavy food culture than the Italians.

She would brown a couple of onions and garlic with a lot ground beef. Crusty brown. The kind of brown that leaves tasty bits on the pan. Then some tomato sauce was added. The resulting sauce was more brown than red and very thick and heavy.

An ice cold glass of milk was a mandatory accompaniment. Yummers.

Leftover spaghetti noodles were used the next day to make a decadent treat. Bread crumbs browned in butter get the noodles added in to warm. Top this with sugar and you’re in carb heaven.

Lots of things got covered in butter browned breadcrumbs.

Zwetschgenknödel are German potato plum dumplings. We didn’t get them very often because they are really hard work but when she did make them, she made loads and we gorged. A mashed potato dough was wrapped around a pitted, ripe plum and boiled. Once cooked, these dumplings were rolled in brown butter breadcrumbs and topped with sugar.

Cauliflower heads got topped with brown butter breadcrumbs, too. No sugar, though.

When she fried foods, like chicken, I would steal the browned flour/breadcrumbs in the pan. That is unless the now flavored oil wasn’t needed to fry up some potato pancakes. She always put some butter in the oil to give it extra flavor.

We ate pancakes, too. My vision of breakfast always includes pancakes, especially blueberry pancakes. I could go for some blueberry pancakes right now, with some bacon or ham or both. All drenched in melted butter and maple syrup. Add some home fries with lots of onions and garlic and you’ve got breakfast perfection.

My father used to make homemade ice cream. He had an old-fashioned ice cream maker that he had to crank forever. It seemed like hours before the ice cream would be done. He’d put strawberries in it. I preferred plain vanilla but fresh strawberries weren’t too bad.

My father’s favorite dessert is strawberry shortcake. My mother cut up tons of strawberries and marinated them in lots of sugar so there was plenty of sweet juicy liquid with the berries. Then she baked Bisquick as a sheet cake. This was cut warm, topped with the cold sweet berries and juice and freshly made whipped cream.

Food was so good before we all had to get healthy.

I always have a craving for something and I never know what it is. I like eating appetizers at restaurants because I’m always searching for a certain taste to satisfy this vague, elusive hunger I have for something. I wonder if I had a table in front of me laid out with fifty distinctly different foods and I nibbled on all of them would I be satisfied.

Nothing ever quite hits the mark though.

I suspect I’m trying to satisfy the wrong hunger.

even my coffee cup is boring or you can't make a silk purse of a sow's ear

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The prompt for today is to write about my day and make it interesting. Oh, yeah, that’s gonna happen. Here’s my day:

I wake up.

I drink coffee.

I get dressed.

I go to work.

I come home.

I go to bed.

Exciting. Yes? No!

How do you make a boring life not boring? Talk about an uphill climb. We weren’t talking about hills or climbing, but let’s move on.

My bladder is so painfully full. I don’t want to wake up but I can’t make the pressure go away and I can’t ignore it. I crack open one eye to peek at the clock. Even though I use my smart phone as an alarm, I keep an old fashioned alarm clock on my bedside table. It has large LED numbers so I can see it in the dark without my glasses. I need the reassurance of being grounded in linear time when I wake up in with a panic attack. Seeing the time helps me calm down and remember I’m not dying.

I stumble out of bed, grumbling at the aches in my joints. I make it to the toilet just before I lose control. The relief is like an orgasm.

It’s four in the morning and I’m wide awake.

I brew my first cup of coffee, black and strong. Jet fuel for a mind and body that needs a jolt first thing in the morning to even begin to function. I’m working mostly on autopilot right now. Habit and routine working in my favor. I fill my ever present water bottle with ice. Hot coffee and ice water. They are all I need for the first two hours of my day. I gulp down twenty ounces of cold water with my high blood pressure pill and my cholesterol medicine.

At this point, I start to worry about what I will write for my first 500 words of the day. I have nothing to say. I’m a boring idiot who should just keep my mouth shut. Do the world a favor and go hide in a corner somewhere. Shut the fuck up. I’m going to do this regardless of how pathetic and ridiculous you think this is. I have to or I am going to die.

There’s about an hour of this lovely self talk interspersed with moments of zoning out to relieve some of the pressure and pain of my inadequacies. It’s hard working reminding myself I might have some value. It takes lots of energy fighting depressive thoughts. I’m exhausted and I haven’t even done anything yet.

There’s distracting behavior involved. I’ve found that numbers and patterns are my friends.

Friend or Follow - unfollow anyone who stopped following me

Libra Horoscope - scoff at the ridiculousness

Bank Account - no one has stolen from me during the night

Twitter - yay, another follower

Facebook - the meme’s are taking over

Emails - junk, junk, read later, junk, junk, junk

Pack the lunch boxes and get another cup of coffee - this requires that I move. I bitch and moan in my head about how bad I have it. I should have been born rich so I can have a servant hand feed me strawberries.

It’s now six am.