Ranty McRant
Right, so I haven't blogged all week, and that's because I've kind of been doing my own version of the Fukishima reactor. Not melting down exactly, but not in control either, and most of the melting down wasn't my fault, and yet there it is.
And I can't go into detail on most of it, and most of the rest I shouldn't, and so that leaves that I can say that the second cat in a year is dying, and I'm not mourning him so much as I'm so overloaded that at this point I sort of want it over just so that it's over, because if it's not now it'll be later, and I just want it done. I did most of my mourning for Mia in the last month as opposed to the actual time of death, so that's about par.
I just had a nice long session with Dan, cuddled on the bed where I cried and carried on and got mad and blamed the dirt and basically voiced all the shit I have been accumulating all week. So I suppose in the Fukishima analogy he was the seawater. And it worked pretty well.
And no, I'm not all better, but I do feel like the meltdown has been calmed. For now. The hardest part is being adult, of not picking one of the four thousand things and turning into the Joan avatar and screaming the full fury of being made impotent by forces beyond my control at one place, which of course doesn't deserve that rancor, and even if it did, it wouldn't help. Which is why we had controlled meltdown with Dan. I really do feel like a nuclear reactor this week, unable to function properly because of outside crap, unable to solve outside crap, upset about all the crap, and then cumulatively more lonely and angry and impotent.
Frequently when people interview me and have read my books they ask me who I'm the most like. I never hesitate. Randy. I am the living female embodiment of Randy. I was always Randy, but now that I've written him, whenever I get stuck he rises in my head. This morning we were both sitting at a poker table, and he pushed over a Dirty Whiskey and said, "See, this is why we don't do shit. This is why we don't reach for stuff, and why we just keep it all even and down-low and never invest." And I said, "Yeah, and that's why you were lonely and I was crazy." And he grunted, and we both drank, and then he wandered off to Ethan and I to Dan which, really, is the same fucking thing.
Everybody has their kryptonite. Everybody is a possible Fukishima. Mine is control. I hate being out of control. I hate losing control. And what I despite more than anything is having things that matter to me, things I really want, be dependent on other forces, people, or events, and those events are not as in control as I want. Which, as my therapist points out, is that I want the world to be so perfect you could dip it in bronze and preserve it. So that's a problem. Which is why writing makes me crazy, because my process always leads me into the wilderness and makes me doubt everything and freak out and lose my shit. And then suddenly a book comes out, and now I sell them. It's a weird living, but it will do.
So Randy and I are going to be over here sullen for a bit. I have a release out Tuesday. It's one I've been waiting to release for ten years. It has about ten snafus around it. They could all fix any second now, and probably will, and it's nobody's fault but the usual earthquakes. But Randy and I are having a hard time. So we're just going to go hang out with the pretty, sexy, beautiful boys who charmed us both and chew through several decks of cards until things straighten out. And we don't know yet how we feel about the cat, but we'll figure that one out too, eventually.
But there's a lot of whiskey in my future. Which is better than cigarettes, I guess. Maybe.
Bleah.
And I can't go into detail on most of it, and most of the rest I shouldn't, and so that leaves that I can say that the second cat in a year is dying, and I'm not mourning him so much as I'm so overloaded that at this point I sort of want it over just so that it's over, because if it's not now it'll be later, and I just want it done. I did most of my mourning for Mia in the last month as opposed to the actual time of death, so that's about par.
I just had a nice long session with Dan, cuddled on the bed where I cried and carried on and got mad and blamed the dirt and basically voiced all the shit I have been accumulating all week. So I suppose in the Fukishima analogy he was the seawater. And it worked pretty well.
And no, I'm not all better, but I do feel like the meltdown has been calmed. For now. The hardest part is being adult, of not picking one of the four thousand things and turning into the Joan avatar and screaming the full fury of being made impotent by forces beyond my control at one place, which of course doesn't deserve that rancor, and even if it did, it wouldn't help. Which is why we had controlled meltdown with Dan. I really do feel like a nuclear reactor this week, unable to function properly because of outside crap, unable to solve outside crap, upset about all the crap, and then cumulatively more lonely and angry and impotent.
Frequently when people interview me and have read my books they ask me who I'm the most like. I never hesitate. Randy. I am the living female embodiment of Randy. I was always Randy, but now that I've written him, whenever I get stuck he rises in my head. This morning we were both sitting at a poker table, and he pushed over a Dirty Whiskey and said, "See, this is why we don't do shit. This is why we don't reach for stuff, and why we just keep it all even and down-low and never invest." And I said, "Yeah, and that's why you were lonely and I was crazy." And he grunted, and we both drank, and then he wandered off to Ethan and I to Dan which, really, is the same fucking thing.
Everybody has their kryptonite. Everybody is a possible Fukishima. Mine is control. I hate being out of control. I hate losing control. And what I despite more than anything is having things that matter to me, things I really want, be dependent on other forces, people, or events, and those events are not as in control as I want. Which, as my therapist points out, is that I want the world to be so perfect you could dip it in bronze and preserve it. So that's a problem. Which is why writing makes me crazy, because my process always leads me into the wilderness and makes me doubt everything and freak out and lose my shit. And then suddenly a book comes out, and now I sell them. It's a weird living, but it will do.
So Randy and I are going to be over here sullen for a bit. I have a release out Tuesday. It's one I've been waiting to release for ten years. It has about ten snafus around it. They could all fix any second now, and probably will, and it's nobody's fault but the usual earthquakes. But Randy and I are having a hard time. So we're just going to go hang out with the pretty, sexy, beautiful boys who charmed us both and chew through several decks of cards until things straighten out. And we don't know yet how we feel about the cat, but we'll figure that one out too, eventually.
But there's a lot of whiskey in my future. Which is better than cigarettes, I guess. Maybe.
Bleah.