Now, gods, stand up for bastards!
Somedays I really wish it were possible to take time off from life to be female. Not just to call in sick to work, but to call in sick to life. Freeze bills and taxes and meetings and responsibilities just for a couple of days until you can gain a little more physical and emotional equilibrium.
The best I have been able to achieve recently is a couple hours of escape snatched here and there, which help in the moment but only serve to set me back further on progress of 'real life' matters. Yet without these few stolen moments I don't know how I would be able to feign dealing with life as it currently stands. The truly sad fact is that if I were more financially solvent I would be in much better spirits - I might even be downright happy with the state, or approaching state at least, of things. Instead I grow more terrified by the day, and don't know how to remedy the problem.
It doesn't make me the most pleasant person to converse with or be around, which is another reason for my eschewing the real world for that of others.
And on that note, I must add that I saw an episode from series four of ER tonight I do not think I've seen before. It was one of the best episodes I've ever seen. It further solidified my opinion that Greene and Carter are the heart and soul of that series.
Currently I'm switching between figure skating worlds (happening right now less than 20 miles from where I sit, and PBS' airing of the RSC production of King Lear with Ian McKellan. So far I liked Plummer's Lear better (which is probably blasphemy to some - and I will say that I saw Plummer live, twice), but it is a very good production. Of course it's making me want to watch old school Doctor Who as Sylvester McCoy is playing the fool.
I also hold that the role of Edmund in Lear ranks up with the likes of Geoffrey in Lion in Winter as one of the best written parts in theatre.
This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune -- often the surfeit of our own behavior -- we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars, as if we were villains by necessity, fools by heavenly compulsion, knaves, thieves, and treachers by spherical predominance, drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforced obedience of planetary influence, and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on.
Also, it'd really be nice to have expendable income to have been able to go to worlds. With or without my Johnny boy.
The best I have been able to achieve recently is a couple hours of escape snatched here and there, which help in the moment but only serve to set me back further on progress of 'real life' matters. Yet without these few stolen moments I don't know how I would be able to feign dealing with life as it currently stands. The truly sad fact is that if I were more financially solvent I would be in much better spirits - I might even be downright happy with the state, or approaching state at least, of things. Instead I grow more terrified by the day, and don't know how to remedy the problem.
It doesn't make me the most pleasant person to converse with or be around, which is another reason for my eschewing the real world for that of others.
And on that note, I must add that I saw an episode from series four of ER tonight I do not think I've seen before. It was one of the best episodes I've ever seen. It further solidified my opinion that Greene and Carter are the heart and soul of that series.
Currently I'm switching between figure skating worlds (happening right now less than 20 miles from where I sit, and PBS' airing of the RSC production of King Lear with Ian McKellan. So far I liked Plummer's Lear better (which is probably blasphemy to some - and I will say that I saw Plummer live, twice), but it is a very good production. Of course it's making me want to watch old school Doctor Who as Sylvester McCoy is playing the fool.
I also hold that the role of Edmund in Lear ranks up with the likes of Geoffrey in Lion in Winter as one of the best written parts in theatre.
This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune -- often the surfeit of our own behavior -- we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars, as if we were villains by necessity, fools by heavenly compulsion, knaves, thieves, and treachers by spherical predominance, drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforced obedience of planetary influence, and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on.
Also, it'd really be nice to have expendable income to have been able to go to worlds. With or without my Johnny boy.