*Sigh*
I am bordering on delirium.
Hell, maybe I should try to write.
I'd laugh, but I haven't been having any luck with it otherwise, so it's not like I could do much worse at this point, I suppose.
I did manage another short chapter of my experimental novel thing--the fourth one since I started it last month--so I am clearly making blazing progress there. Last Wednesday, I also wrote an 11-page conversation with Lucifer which I intended to turn into either a short story or a poem, but it's pretty obvious now, looking back over it, that it was written in a sort of feverish haze, so I'm not entirely sure I can do anything with it at all.
It's been so long since I tried to do anything real, anything with meaning, that I don't know that I can still do it. I was never that good to start with, but I've deteriorated over the years. Now I have a brief flash or two of something that's decent, but it's buried underneath mountains of bullshit to the point where I have to wonder if it's worth even attempting to dig it out or not.
Blech.
The Universe is being strangely silent on the matter for now, though, so I'm having to muddle through this alone at the moment. I feel like I'm having to relearn how to do something that I was, perhaps, never that good at to start with, and I hate it.
I've been trying to read more. The 19th century--the Victorians, mainly. They're the ones I love the most. I'm also reading a Kindle book that my dear friend L. sent me for Valentine's Day. (I sent her back the first book of the Grisha trilogy on Kindle as her Valentine's Day gift because I desperately want to addict other people to this freaking series, too.) I was doing well with the reading, too, until I started running out of meds. I've been rationing again because I don't know when I'll be able to get more because I'm broke as per usual, and I'll be goddamned if I'm asking my mother to get them for me again, given how much bullshit I have to take from her every time she does.
I have 3 Wellbutrin left in the bottle. I haven't had one in 2 days. Still plenty of Lamictal, thank God, but it's the Wellbutrin that I, arguably, need the most. I rarely get very manic nowadays. It's either a decent mood or black, black despair. Because, you know, why not?
Blinding headaches. My ADD is off the fucking charts. I can't even read anymore. It's so hard to love the English language like I do--flawed though it may be, though I am, too, so I suppose it's fitting--and not even be able to fucking read.
I talk to FangBunny nearly every night about writing. Well, and other things. Writing. Books. Angst. Our own pretension. Beautiful men. That kind of thing.
Last night, I ended up on the phone with my friend B. in Huntsville for two hours, from like 2 am until 4 am. About a third of the conversation was me being bitter and angsty because I have apparently reverted to my teen years or something. Another third was me drifting in and out of sleep. And the last third was me sending him fucking Tumblr links on Yahoo and listening to his reactions because yay, Internet? But at some point during the "drifting in and out of sleep" portion of the conversation, I said one of the most insightful things I've come up with lately. Ok, well, I didn't say it; I slurred it. I was about three-quarters asleep, after all. "I wish brooding were a sport," I said, "'cuz I'd win, like, everything."
Eloquently phrased? No. A wonderful assessment of the reason for a lot of my problems being because I stay in my own head too much? Yes.
But, alas, all my friends are asleep now, and I'm here listening to CCR and being angry because I can't write. Well, anything other than this shit, that is. *Sigh*
The good news, I suppose, is that L. is coming next week to spend several days. She's going to dye my hair black for me again, since it's been, like, 9 months since it was last dyed. I took some pics with my new webcam for Facebook last week, and it is painfully obvious in those just how two-toned my hair currently is. We may even go to the bar for old time's sake. I won't drink, of course. Well, no more than a daiquiri, or maybe two if they're particularly good that night. She can do the drinking. I'll drive. I don't need to drink, anyhow, and I get no pleasure from it anymore, anyway, (fucking meds), so there's no sense in wasting liquor. Besides, it's not like she hasn't driven my drunk ass around a million times over the years. It's the least I can do.
But until then, I'm stuck here with my own thoughts, and that can be quite dangerous indeed.
Oh, well. Maybe I can actually read tonight? Who the fuck knows anymore?
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