Weird Day

Fighting a familiar demon today. Feeling fidgety, frustrated: my pants are too tight, my hair is misbehaving, my back hurts—that’s a reality, actually; my sciatica is killing me. It also keeps the fire smoldering. I have a handful of what should be short and simple paragraphs to write for an article, but each sentence seems fated to fight with the next, and I repeatedly highlight the lot of them and pound them into oblivion with the backspace key.

At the same time, I’m bobbing and weaving these compulsions, so far avoiding a rage-filled breakdown (which always fails to get me where I need to go, anyway). I closed the article doc and emailed it to myself, to be worked on during a healthier mental state. Acknowledge the problem, tell it it doesn’t matter, and then walk away. Your fleshy midsection makes no difference to anyone and is not a permanent condition. Your greasy hair doesn’t matter. Your words will come.

It’s a weird day—this successful dodging of anger included. I haven’t had coffee all week. It didn’t start as a resolution—I overslept Monday and didn’t have a chance to make it at home, didn’t have a taste for it at the office. And then I started to figure that, since I tend to binge on coffee, drinking it every morning and turning to it compulsively when I get stuck on something (It’s like booze for the daylight hours!), perhaps abandoning it cold-turkey would result in interesting, if not productive, personal developments.

So far, it’s just making me drink a lot of tea.

But, and perhaps it’s just psychosomatic, going this long without that intense caffeine edge seems to give the day a kind of ethereal quality. Floating. Philosophical.

Or maybe it’s standard burnout: I’ve skipped lunch waiting for an interviewee to call, and I always get this way after staring at a computer for six hours straight.

Or maybe it’s self-injected paranoia: I discovered a brand new Scientology article—like candy to me—and this kind of psycho-high always develops when I read about lunatics with agendas.

Or maybe it’s absurdist: I ate a shit-ton of meatloaf last night and my physiology is confused and frightened.

It’s an odd collection of things to make up the day. Add to it: talking to a podiatrist just now about bioengineered alternative tissues and bunionectomies. (Also, did you know that “bunion” is derived from “beignet”? That is going to fucking ruin doughnuts for me, dammit.)

I’d been thinking about an after-work stroll and just settling in with some laundry and dish-washing, but now I feel like there should be weirder things in store for me. And that is, frankly, a lovely feeling.

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