Messing with my head.
Over the last three or four days, I've had a lot of dreams involving Kate. I couldn't tell you what exactly went on in those dreams because honestly I can't remember, but what I can tell you is that they've put me in a generally bad mood that has without exception lasted all day, leaving me in a place where nothing's fun, nothing's enjoyable, nothing really has a point. This is, of course, really irritating. My most versatile and most practiced defense mechanism-- rationalization-- is totally ineffective here because it's impossible for me to pull those things out of my subconscious so I can dissect them and mold them to fit my needs. It's not even something I can bring up with my psychologist because it's rather difficult to talk about something that I don't at all remember.
Maybe this is the part of the grieving process that ends with time.
In slightly happier news, as a result of a philosophical discussion I had with myself I'm going to be making more of an effort to really do those little things that need to be done. For example, I need to start making an effort to clean up the floor of my bedroom. Right now, there's a big giant mess of totally random odds and ends strewn all about and I have no clue what I'm going to do with any of it. A lot of it is genuine certifiable junk that I'll probably wind up throwing out, but making myself actually throw any of it out is going to be a bit of a trial. You see, I have a nearly impossible time getting rid of anything. It's a condition.
Since the book is so damned long and I don't really feel like renewing the thing from the library every month, I went out and bought a copy of Cryptonomicon last night. In doing so, I discovered, and in retrospect this probably should have been pretty obvious, that "science fiction" doesn't necessarily imply that the science part is fiction. That is, there's a lot more to the genre than Star Wars and the like.
As much as writing all this junk is probably helping me out in some way, I need to start doing work. You know, that stuff that they pay me to be here to do? Yeah. That.
Maybe this is the part of the grieving process that ends with time.
In slightly happier news, as a result of a philosophical discussion I had with myself I'm going to be making more of an effort to really do those little things that need to be done. For example, I need to start making an effort to clean up the floor of my bedroom. Right now, there's a big giant mess of totally random odds and ends strewn all about and I have no clue what I'm going to do with any of it. A lot of it is genuine certifiable junk that I'll probably wind up throwing out, but making myself actually throw any of it out is going to be a bit of a trial. You see, I have a nearly impossible time getting rid of anything. It's a condition.
Since the book is so damned long and I don't really feel like renewing the thing from the library every month, I went out and bought a copy of Cryptonomicon last night. In doing so, I discovered, and in retrospect this probably should have been pretty obvious, that "science fiction" doesn't necessarily imply that the science part is fiction. That is, there's a lot more to the genre than Star Wars and the like.
As much as writing all this junk is probably helping me out in some way, I need to start doing work. You know, that stuff that they pay me to be here to do? Yeah. That.