Pieces of me are falling away.
Upon getting back to the library I'm still rattled from the housing interview. I sit for a few minutes, surf the web, and think long and hard about how the interview was. Therefore, I really was too preoccupied to write. I finally give up and walk to the therapist to air out my head. It's a pretty robust walk, taking about a half hour one way.
I get to my therapist and she wastes no time in letting me in. I sit and the first thing I tell her about is the apartment interview. I tell her about how it was and who was there. I tell her how badly I think I fared. "That's par for the course with you, Hobobob," she says. "You always think the worst of a situation." In fact I do. I'll think the worst case scenario for any situation. It can be a weekend at Walt Disney World, and I'll still think Mickey Mouse could be strapped with dynamite. She listens to me as she always does. Bitch and moan, bitch and moan. One day I'll run out of things to crank about and I'll stop coming to her, and stop blogging. I wonder when that will be? It does cross my mind. If I do get this SRO will I stop blogging since I'll be homeless no more? Or can an SRO be defined as a home?
But what would I do with myself if I stopped blogging? Masturbate? Build a leggo castle? Watch movies? I don't know. I don't know if I will ever be complete if I do not blog. I would actually FEEL very alone. I would feel like something was missing. I could write that Great American novel. I could work on getting published, or getting that writing gig that pays.
Unlike the writing gig that I do have. I'm not complaining, no. It's keeping me on my toes, which is what I wanted. But keeping on your toes is fucking hard. It's fucking hard to come up with an article every week, and then to write it. It's fucking hard to get the photos that you want. It's hard. Already I've filed the last one with the publishers, and I'm thinking of what to move on to?
Sitting in Starbucks later that night, trying to write is not going well. I can't get my thoughts together. My brother and I talked about the Handbook, and how we'll handle it, so I pulled it up, ready to start writing away, and nothing came out.
Serious writer's block. That's a scary thing for a writer. It's like impotency to a porn star. I have an assignment anyway for myself. I have to go to Coyote Ugly and take a few photos of the outside of the establishment for the article. I told my brother of my intention to walk downtown and he offered to accompany me. Together, we set off down Madison Avenue in the cool night. It was a bit nippy and my jacket should have been a little heavier but I toughed it out.
We came up on Coyote Ugly and there was a crowd in front of the front door. I whipped out my camera and fired away and get some decent shots, but the people were in them. Not that much of a problem actually. If they didn't want to be photographed they shouldn't be in public. I crossed the street and snapped a few shots from that angle. When I looked at the preview on the back of my camera, they turned out to be too dark. That's just great. This long walk for too dark pictures. I gave up and my brother and I walked to the Box, and I bade him farewell at the subway.
I got up as early as I could the next morning and hopped online. It's the first thing that I love to do. Usually I'm asked to close down early at night, which gets me aggravated, but the cure for that is to fall asleep fast so that I can wake in the morning and get back on. I'm a child with a new toy, eschewing sleep to play with it.
I guess that's precisely what the Internet is: a huge adult toy.
I don't waste time. After the Morning Meeting I set out and head over to Starbucks for coffee, to give me that jolt that I so desperately need in the mornings, and then to the library to get to work. There is indeed a lot of it. I'm busy writing all morning long, from emails to bulk mailings to cleaning up my article and submitting it, and working on my next post. I had a mountain of work that I built up for myself and I tackled it.
It wasn't long before I had to go to therapy again. This time with Nurse G. It is an overcast and dreary day, but it doesn't stop me from putting on my trusty poncho and heading out, walking to my therapist's office. Nurse G does not keep me waiting long. I'm up and in her office in moments. "Have you ever slept outside in the cold weather?" She sits back in her chair, crosses her arms over her bulk. Yeah, sure. Loads of times. "Where did you sleep?" On benches. When it got too cold I went to bus and train stations. Cops are a little more lenient when it's real cold out. "Tell me, are you feeling anxious lately." Yeah, I've been wound tight for a spell. "Get distracted easily? Quickly bored?" Yep. I'm bored already. "Have trouble sleeping?" Not really, but I need that TRAMADOL to kick in to call it a night. "Because studies show that ABILIFY causes anxiety with extended use. You have been on it for some time now. I want to see if something will work for that anxiety." Yeah? What's that? "LYRICA."
Fuck if I know what a LYRICA is.
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2008/11/when-time-comes.html
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