I don’t care what it looks like; it feels far edgier, sexier, to drag on cigarette after cigarette when you’re overworked and underslept. Instead, because I’ve given up cigarettes, and because even when I drink, it’s low key, these days I eat to try and keep myself awake and focused. Today, having less than 2 hours consecutive sleep (M waking, crying, N, waking, hacking cough), and behind on work, I skipped writing during that first fresh hour when M goes down for a nap and instead, worked. Like, my actual paying work, which I increasingly realize, I suck at. [Because I work online and do not interact with my boss on the phone or in person, each “ok.” that he writes strikes fear in my heart that I will be fired. why the lower case? why the abrupt punkt mark? does he realize I try and read meaning into these things?]
this meant, though, that I didn’t write in the best part of the day, and thus, having gone up and down the stairs with M, to the library and store and back, having finished at least one work project, I tried to sit and work. And instead worked my way through a carton of chocolate peanut butter ice cream while staring at the screen. I finally let it go and cleaned, cooked.
Now I’m trying to write with The Path in the background. Not useful.
I’ve actually succeeding in making myself sick, something I have not done in quite a long time.