Of Christmas Music, Idiots in Human Skins, and Suffering from Short Pinky Syndrome
Would that I were more ambitious, driven, energetic. Would that I could sustain my creative passions until they produced monetary gain. Would that I were more of all the things that I barely am.
My dear husband has banned Christmas music here in our humble abode. It makes it that much harder to muster any sort of Christmas spirit.
Yes, I said it. A few times. ChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmas. Merry CHRISTMAS. I will not say Happy Holidays. My tradition is Christmas, not Kwanzaa or Chanukkah. If you celebrate Kwanzaa or Chanukkah, may you be blessed on your respective holidays. But I am celebrating Christmas.
Or not celebrating it, anyway. I do not think Christmas will hold any magic for me anymore, at least not until I have a kid.
So I have not written or edited in a few days. I hate that I have not. And yet I have not the drive or desire to do it. Which is really fucking wrong of me, seeing as I haven't been working so that I could write. I have opened Word many times and looked around at the older of my two books. But then I just close it. This is not writer's block. No, this is different. This, my friends, or ghosts thereof, this is depression.
::Original content deleted. Censoring myself. ::
Maybe it's time I get off my ass and do something mildly constructive. I have more to say, of course. But at least half the thoughts in our brains should never leak out through hand or mouth.
My dear husband has banned Christmas music here in our humble abode. It makes it that much harder to muster any sort of Christmas spirit.
Yes, I said it. A few times. ChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmas. Merry CHRISTMAS. I will not say Happy Holidays. My tradition is Christmas, not Kwanzaa or Chanukkah. If you celebrate Kwanzaa or Chanukkah, may you be blessed on your respective holidays. But I am celebrating Christmas.
Or not celebrating it, anyway. I do not think Christmas will hold any magic for me anymore, at least not until I have a kid.
So I have not written or edited in a few days. I hate that I have not. And yet I have not the drive or desire to do it. Which is really fucking wrong of me, seeing as I haven't been working so that I could write. I have opened Word many times and looked around at the older of my two books. But then I just close it. This is not writer's block. No, this is different. This, my friends, or ghosts thereof, this is depression.
::Original content deleted. Censoring myself. ::
Maybe it's time I get off my ass and do something mildly constructive. I have more to say, of course. But at least half the thoughts in our brains should never leak out through hand or mouth.