Bitch, please: Friday edition
I hate waking up sniffly, and yet it seems to be all I do anymore.
Come hell or high water, my story for the workshop has to be done and in the mail tomorrow morning. I've blown my own personal deadline and now I'm up against the goddam wall. The idea, I suspect, is too ambitious given the length restrictions of the assignment. My inner editor won't shut the fuck up. These are only some of the lessons I'm learning, and I haven't even arrived on the Oregon coast yet. Trouble is, I know this shit already. Learning to deal with these issues is the biggest problem I have. And the whole worthiness issue, but that's a subject for another time. (Hello, girl, you've already proven yourself via publication!) Crap.
The house looks like a cyclone blew through and has for weeks now because of the room switcheroo. The carpet's filthy and I'm sick of it. One side effect of finishing the goddam story and getting it out of the house will be having time to fix this situation, but the psychic noise is killing me.
I don't want to spend two hours caucusing. I want to spend 15 minutes in a voting booth. Washington state doesn't give me a choice, however, if I want my voice to be heard. It's a privilege to participate in the Democratic process, and a necessity this year. But what a pain in the ass. Were I in a better mood, I would be looking forward to it. As it is, I'm living up to my zodiac sign and being a total crab. Don't worry; I'll be there. I'm just not happy about it. Today, anyway.
I had plans for this weekend that have been overtaken and undermined by, well, a shitty situation for a friend. I was looking forward to our plans, dammit. I understand why they had to be canceled and I understand that it couldn't be avoided but...but...well, fuck.
It's too cold.
The litter box stinks and I haven't had time to clean it.
I'm sick to death of being overweight.
War sucks.
There's no intelligent life on Mars, dammit. Except, apparently, in 1973, where John Simm is more appealing than he ought to be, and where Starsky and Hutch have a lot to answer for (except that, you know, their show debuted two years later, in 1975).
The universe is getting older too fast for any of us to do anything about it.
Please feel free to bitch along with me if you're so inclined.
Ridiculous, isn't it, how large a crabby mood can get?
Come hell or high water, my story for the workshop has to be done and in the mail tomorrow morning. I've blown my own personal deadline and now I'm up against the goddam wall. The idea, I suspect, is too ambitious given the length restrictions of the assignment. My inner editor won't shut the fuck up. These are only some of the lessons I'm learning, and I haven't even arrived on the Oregon coast yet. Trouble is, I know this shit already. Learning to deal with these issues is the biggest problem I have. And the whole worthiness issue, but that's a subject for another time. (Hello, girl, you've already proven yourself via publication!) Crap.
The house looks like a cyclone blew through and has for weeks now because of the room switcheroo. The carpet's filthy and I'm sick of it. One side effect of finishing the goddam story and getting it out of the house will be having time to fix this situation, but the psychic noise is killing me.
I don't want to spend two hours caucusing. I want to spend 15 minutes in a voting booth. Washington state doesn't give me a choice, however, if I want my voice to be heard. It's a privilege to participate in the Democratic process, and a necessity this year. But what a pain in the ass. Were I in a better mood, I would be looking forward to it. As it is, I'm living up to my zodiac sign and being a total crab. Don't worry; I'll be there. I'm just not happy about it. Today, anyway.
I had plans for this weekend that have been overtaken and undermined by, well, a shitty situation for a friend. I was looking forward to our plans, dammit. I understand why they had to be canceled and I understand that it couldn't be avoided but...but...well, fuck.
It's too cold.
The litter box stinks and I haven't had time to clean it.
I'm sick to death of being overweight.
War sucks.
There's no intelligent life on Mars, dammit. Except, apparently, in 1973, where John Simm is more appealing than he ought to be, and where Starsky and Hutch have a lot to answer for (except that, you know, their show debuted two years later, in 1975).
The universe is getting older too fast for any of us to do anything about it.
Please feel free to bitch along with me if you're so inclined.
Ridiculous, isn't it, how large a crabby mood can get?