If You See It, Tell Me Where It's Hiding
What I'm actually suffering from right now is the plight of having a little too much to say: the mind struggling with all the little ignitions, sending my consciousness quaquaversal (you know how hard it is to find a use for that word?). I have little treatises forming on all sorts of wonderful topics, very few of which have anything to do with anything besides procrastination.
As "The Date" gets closer, I feel more and more harried (harangued, halted, hysterical), although I can really only get so much done in so much time, and I'm on schedule far as I can tell. I spent this morning walking around in circles, attempting to determine some sort of direction to focus my attempts at organization, and instead bottomed out and read a quarter of a novel.
The cats are now gone, and I'm suffering their phantom presence. Much like losing a limb, I'm still making room for them about my legs on the sofa, checking to bat them back when taking ham out of the fridge. Their absence has opened up that gulf that comes with moving. Empty shelves, lifeless floor.
The real problem though, is that the lead up to going away might do me in before I even set foot on the plane. My liver is threatening to pop out, grow legs, and scuttle off to refuge any moment now. Enough already!
Intellectually, I know that it's possible to socialize without drinking oneself down to a weak emblem of his regular, scintillating glory, but really, where’s the challenge in that?
As "The Date" gets closer, I feel more and more harried (harangued, halted, hysterical), although I can really only get so much done in so much time, and I'm on schedule far as I can tell. I spent this morning walking around in circles, attempting to determine some sort of direction to focus my attempts at organization, and instead bottomed out and read a quarter of a novel.
The cats are now gone, and I'm suffering their phantom presence. Much like losing a limb, I'm still making room for them about my legs on the sofa, checking to bat them back when taking ham out of the fridge. Their absence has opened up that gulf that comes with moving. Empty shelves, lifeless floor.
The real problem though, is that the lead up to going away might do me in before I even set foot on the plane. My liver is threatening to pop out, grow legs, and scuttle off to refuge any moment now. Enough already!
Intellectually, I know that it's possible to socialize without drinking oneself down to a weak emblem of his regular, scintillating glory, but really, where’s the challenge in that?
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