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16 November 2003 @ 12:45 pm
the big slothy suck  
I am doing that thing where I keep clicking to refresh my friends list and my e-mail in order to avoid opening Word and writing anything. If I'm not careful, I'm about five minutes away from heavy drinking.

At least we've crossed the threshold of noon. It wouldn't be *morning* drinking.

Shyeah. Am assiduously not-thinking about it. Avoidance is a marvelous thing sometimes. Oh, it's marvy. I drank far less than I'd intended on my business trip, though. In fact, for the past week, there have been several times when I've been too tired to drink. Coma-sleep can be just as addicting as drink, though. This is my unlife. I just cycle from one addiction to another.

I bought new sheets. I had two sets, flannel, and I wore them out. Threadbare and tattered. Enormous holes, right at foot-level. The new sheets are Egyptian cotton, and they shrank in the wash; barely fit around my bed now, though they're ostensibly the correct size. Must try to find a different brand; but the cotton is great, feels fantastic.

Bought a new portable CD player too. I'd put that off for months, even though my old ones were so tragically fucked up that they skipped on just about every song and wobbled the CD so that it sometimes wouldn't even play. I think they may have scratched my CDs too.

I wear things down to their bones. Clothes, shoes, etc. Because I don't have money and/or I'm just too lazy to shop. And then one day I'll blink and realize my shoes are scuffed and stinky and my shirt has an indelible stain and my thrift-store frying pan is a grotesque amalgam of crud and abrasions.

I'm oversharing. Must continue to avoid myself and my thoughts. I live in my head a lot, all the time. And then one day I'll blink out of an internal haze of slashy fantasy and realize that I still exist in the world, that the sky is heaped with cloud strata and glowing down over the Seattle hills like El Greco's Toledo and there's wet leaves plastered in layers all over the streets and the air is like wine. And I realize I'm not *seeing* anything--that half the time I'm just oblivious and blind, lost in trivialities, that I'm almost thirty-five and I don't even *try* to live outside my head anymore, I just cart the body around to buoy the mind. I exist inside a bubble of self, hermetically sealed.

I hate when I can't bring myself to write. It's all I have. I'm just pointless baggage otherwise, a little package of existential junk getting routed from one point to another, birth to death.

I really, really don't want to die. I have huge death issues. That's why I don't pay attention to life. I might get too attached. Everything is scary.
 
 
willshenilshe on November 16th, 2003 12:53 pm (UTC)
::sigh:: I think we were separated at birth, except I'm 28... but I second the feeling behind everything you've written; that's my life, too...
Anna S.: winter_lightseliade on November 16th, 2003 12:58 pm (UTC)
I will share a brain with you. Last night--to carry that thought another place, as iconage and topicality collide--I was thinking about Spike and fixing him up with this nice fellow in my fantasies, and the guy says to Spike, "Problem is, you don't have a soul. I'd share mine with you if I could." "Like a time-share," Spike says. "Like that," the man says.

What if two people could share a soul--what is a half-souled person like? Would he be like me?

Somewhere, Oz is thinking, "Huh."
Anna S.: ben_browdereliade on November 16th, 2003 02:01 pm (UTC)
"Problem is, you don't have a soul. I'd share mine with you if I could." "Like a time-share," Spike says.

Actually, not like a time-share, come to think, as I was going for the concept of simultaneity there, but oh well. ;)
Sue Donym: elaine by sue_donymsue_donym on November 16th, 2003 02:19 pm (UTC)
What if two people could share a soul--what is a half-souled person like? Would he be like me?

As with most things, I can always lead it back to Seinfeld.

George: Listen to me. We're always sitting here. I'm always helping you with your girl problems, you're always helping me with my girl problems. Where do we end up?
Jerry: Here.
George: Exactly. Because neither one of us can handle a woman all by ourselves.
Jerry: I'm trying.
George: I've tried. We don't have it. But maybe the two of us, working together, at full capacity, could do the job of one normal man.
Jerry: Then each of us would only have to be like a half-man. *pause* That sounds about right.
SilverJaimesilverjaime on November 16th, 2003 12:57 pm (UTC)
oh - it's not all you have, but I'm so glad you have it! I just adore all your fic; I'd die to write like you. It moves me so much, your stuff. It's funny and warm and true and just......!
Not to be cheesy or over the top or melodramatic, but sometimes it's reading your fic ( and stuff from peeps like you) that keeps the likes of me going. Real life issues and all that.
We all have them - but whether you have them or not, what you do - write marvellous marvellous fic - makes MY life easier.
So thanks - existential baggage or no - thanks for that.
Anna S.: seattleeliade on November 16th, 2003 01:00 pm (UTC)
Aw. Thanks, baby. I know exactly what you mean. And like willa_writes, you reward my angst with beautiful Spikonage. :>) Thank you.

*kisses you*
witlingwitling on November 16th, 2003 01:12 pm (UTC)
I get a lot of this. Especially the part about pointless baggage. Am currently writing something that I hate, that is pointless baggage out of pointless baggage, like a useless razor case spilling neatly out of an extraneous carry-on, and wondering how this is fair. Especially when there's larvaverse in my head, and I want to write that, but it doesn't count. And it's cold and rainy out, and I have to go out into it soon. Fuck.

So basically, more larvaverse coming up.
needfireneedfire on November 16th, 2003 01:26 pm (UTC)
Lass, I'm sitting on the curb of no writing right there with you... we could have a wee party, I'll bring the twenty year old saucepans I know I'm getting aluminum poisoning from and you bring your sheets. We could have police men tell us to move along, that would be a treat for me, usually it's stop right there...
kemelios on November 16th, 2003 01:56 pm (UTC)
**get out of my head!**

Just, sometimes you are too real for the Internet. Which is generally when one is given one's own TV show. On the WB.

Oh, it doesn't sound like it because I too am a bit drunk, but I do heart you.
Sophia: gillian (default)sophia_helix on November 16th, 2003 01:57 pm (UTC)
I will so trade you writing for what I have to do -- throw around hundreds of dollars in application fees, write several different statements of purpose, and beg professors who barely remember me for letters of rec for law school. I have been dragging my feet on this for weeks, and it still hasn't gotten better. Meanwhile, I've written 60K of fic. *g*

Clearly, all my muse needs to work is to be the shiny distraction from real life horror.

.m
Sue Donym: weareforever by sekhmet_rasue_donym on November 16th, 2003 02:11 pm (UTC)
Because I don't have money and/or I'm just too lazy to shop.

I thought I would share with you what I have in my refrigerator and cupboards. Keep in mind, my local grocery store is right across the street from me.

Diet Caffeine-free Pepsi
Heinz 57 Spicy Ketchup
Pizza box with no more pizza
Ice
Batteries
Reduced Fat Wheat Thins

I am sad now.
Taz: Still Waitingtazical on November 16th, 2003 02:55 pm (UTC)
And I realize I'm not *seeing* anything--that half the time I'm just oblivious and blind, lost in trivialities, that I'm almost thirty-five and I don't even *try* to live outside my head anymore, I just cart the body around to buoy the mind. I exist inside a bubble of self, hermetically sealed.

Oh, you are a scary scary me-person. This is exactly how I've been feeling for most of this very surreal year in my life, cut off and drifting through life and yet I don't have the motivation to do anything about it. What's out there for me? Stuff that scares me, that's what.

I'm actually happy with my world of head-space and that in itself is a scary thing because last year I was running around on glaciers and mountains and valleys and deserts and all over the freaking place and all it's done is show me what else is out there that I'm ignoring. And it's frustrating that I can't seem to make the two places mesh somewhere along the way because I think that's where my ultimate happy-place is, trussed up somewhere between real and fantasy if only I knew how to undo the knot.

*sigh* I knew Girl Scouts should have been good for something.
RivkaT: bitch pleaserivkat on November 16th, 2003 06:58 pm (UTC)
I feel exactly the same way about living in my own head and not my body, which usually seems like a stranger to me, and not a very friendly one at that.

As for sheets, modal, a fabric made from beechwood, is incredibly soft and lighter than flannel for the less-cold seasons. It's pretty cheap, and it's at Bed Bath & Beyond.
herself_nyc on November 16th, 2003 10:53 pm (UTC)
The art happens in our heads, so where else should we be?

I too am incredibly conflicted about it, comrade.

Congrats on the new sheets. Enjoy them. You deserve sensual pleasures of all stripes. Or polka dots. Or solids.
(Anonymous) on November 17th, 2003 06:27 pm (UTC)
*stares* What you just said? About living in a slashy fantasy and only sometimes realising that you're part of the actual world. It's scarily like my life. I feel a lot the same way. Except I can't write as brilliantly as you. Or in fact, not at all, when it comes to fiction. Your last paragraph? It is so true it hurts.

Caeru