Oh, dear. The fuzzies are back with me this morning. Allow me to explain:
See, I was suppose to be writing last night. I really was. I was getting ready to sit down and pen out some stuff, and . . . well, thing never turn out the way you want them to, do they? At least most of the time that’s what happens.
It happened here last night. There were distractions; there were people I was chatting to, and then I found myself caught up in the middle of a lot of things going on that, it would seem, tend to pull me away from what I should be doing, and get me into something I shouldn’t be doing.
Oh, and there was wine involved.
There was about a half a bottle of wine involved, which is one of the reasons I’ve got the fuzzies. As things go, it’s not that bad: trust me, I’ve had a lot worse. I’ll probably be a bad memory by the time my 9:00 AM staff meeting rolls around today–assuming my manager comes in. She may be out this week. Or not. I’m not really sure. That should give you some idea of how connected I am to what’s going on inside the office these days.
The funny thing is I did get into the story. I got into it and started to write. Oh, sure, it was a struggle, and I only did something like 300 words, but I did a nice little set up that will let me get back into it tonight–sans anything remotely alcoholic. I simply need to stay away from that crap.
There is, however, a singular lack of snacks in the place. When he’s aboard Liberator, Albert has access to a ton of snacks; around here, I have none. I need to make a run to the store tonight before coming home.
Oh, and clean my earring, which I managed to get back into my now semi-infected lobe last night. The swelling isn’t bad now–in fact, it’s down quite a lot from how it was Sunday morning. It also seems to be draining, which is a good sign. I need to keep it clean today, and I’m likely going to be making a lot of runs to the bathroom to swab it down. Here’s hoping that the injured ear is back to snuff by this weekend, ’cause . . . damn.
One good thing that did pop up last night: I was chatting with a woman I’ve known for some time now, maybe five, six years, and, to put it bluntly, she was probably hammered. Smashed. Drunk. She likes to get lit up at night and Internet While Blind, which isn’t a good thing, since her brain can’t often keep up with her mouth.
So she’s going on about crap, and I’m trying not to pay too much attention, then when the conversation turns to me, and my writing, and how I’d really like to do this instead of programming, she says something along the lines of, “Oh, that’s a pretty thin line to work with,” or some such nonsense. Really, I shouldn’t have expected much more than that, because she’s always been one to ignore what everyone else around her is doing, and play up her own problems–which are many.
Sorry, love, but this isn’t bothering me as much as you might think it would. You and I both have job we’re not happy with, but in your case, you’re rather complain that you think you’re going to get fired, all the while thinking you’re going to take that opportunity and move back to California, and start over.
And me? I’m working on that pretty thin line, trying to get something working–
‘Cause I am trying to start over. In a good way.