the real thing and confession friday

It's be far, far, far too long since I gave you a true, honest post. Most of them have been drive-bys with a smidge of sarcasm (yes, that's what it's called). I've tried. Really tried. But I'm having a crisis, you see. I used to be called a talented writer or some shit like that. It was back in the days when no one could write a complete sentence so they hired me to write them for newspapers and magazines. Newspapers and magazines no one has heard of, but I wrote for them nonetheless. (is that one word? don't care) Then I wrote dribble for corporate interests for about 8 years, escaped the pod and went on my own. Since then the creative, talented, wonderful me has drifted off and left us. For the last 10 months I've lived in a foggy mess of confusion and disorganization. But at least my clothes have matched. Yes, when your mind is failing you, the best remedy is to hire a wardrobe consultant, hopefully one that doesn't involve malfunctions, and go about your daily business like there's nothing wrong. But fashion and vodka cannot keep the demons of perfection at bay for too long, and your mind struggles to regain its former glory.

Yesterday I nearly burned my house down. That is not a metaphor or parable or code for something else. My house nearly caught on fire. I left a burning candle unattended, which we've all be taught never to do since birth. Regardless, I came back in the room to find a singed desk and a burned picture of my fur children. A minute or two longer and the desk would have caught, spread to the pile of paperwork and then we'd be doing this broadcast live from the Red Cross Shelter. I was on the phone with the CFO at the time and exclaimed, OH SHIT, OH SHIT, I GOTTA GO, I GOTTA GO. Then hung up. He panicked and called me back 45 seconds later. I was putting out the flames and trying to make sense of my unbelievably stupid mistake. I answered to tell him everything was alright and the fire was out. FIRE? Yes, I nearly burned the house down.

There's this block, a switch in my brain, a 'please hold' button, that turns on whenever hubby is around. I can't get a damn thing done. Worse, I can't write when he's around. He comes in the room as I type and I can. not. write. But the problem lies within me. The problem is me. I can't write when it is needed most. I can't focus like I used to. There was a time that I could sit down and make poetry out of extended warranties for refrigerators. But its gone. All gone. Now I'm left with scattered, hard fought, poorly written facsimiles of my faux talent.

Today, every sound grates against my senses like breaks in need of new pads. No, it's not that time of the month. My hearing has been elevated to Superhero perception. I have the S&G blasting, as much as one can blast Bleecker Street, and I can still hear the mundane sounds of life in my house. Brushing teeth, water running, electric razor, light switches being changed into their off position. All of it drives at my brain like Chinese water torture. Even this post is a patchwork of thoughts thrown together, unsure that it even makes sense. Why? He. Keeps. Coming. In. The. Room. I must have a look of sheer disgust on my face. I've never been good at hiding my emotions. Couldn't play poker. He tip toes in to see if everything is ok. Yeah, it's fucking ok. Get the fuck out and let me write some more drivel that no one but 7 people on the planet will give a shit about. But I don't say that. Instead I say that I'll be done in a few minutes. Or whenever the fuck you stop coming in to see if I'm ok. That's the voice in my head screaming at him. Or did I say that out loud? I really couldn't tell you.

I broke down this afternoon and cried over the lack of desk space in my office. There's something wrong in my office. I can feel it. But again, maybe it's me. Maybe I'm the problem. A light bulb nearly exploded over my head earlier as I realized that I have a conflict with a person that I can. not. have a conflict with. It's a personality thing. We just do not fit. This makes the dealings we have to deal with very difficult. I'd be surprised if this person didn't know that we have a personality conflict. Maybe not. But the problem remains and there's only one way to remove it. Let it go. Yes, let it go. But saying and doing are two different things. I have courage but courage does not equal stupid.

So that's my confession. My twisted, painful confession that doesn't really tell you much yet tells you everything there is to tell. My mind is working against me. There's a conspiracy inside me and I'm afraid the other side is winning. I won't post on Friday b/c I have early meetings, a deadline and a 30 minute walk/run to fit in before I start two other projects that, thank the Dogs, does not involve writing.

And that Claire/Aussie/Blonde/tart on LOST reeeeelly bugs me. When will they kill her off and be done with it? If I hear her scream, 'MY BAY-BAI' one more time I'm going to hop on a plane to find those castaways just to shut her the hell up. According to Heather, I'd make a fine stalker. Be warned ABC, be warned.