"dream with me, we'll wake in better light"

Hrmph. It's been a bit of a day. Work gave me notice that I might be getting a notice that I will be getting laid off. Which certainly isn't the end of the world, even if there's some atavistic impulse to start hoarding food and quit doing everything that involves money (gym, dogwalking, having nice things).

There's a message on my voicemail that I can't convince myself to listen to. It's my plastic surgeon, calling to tell me something about her research to find if there's any way to make my boobs bigger.

Phones and I have a long history of crazy. I've ignored them, dismantled them, refused to talk on them, had days when I had to spend a solid thirty minutes talking myself into calling someone.

Light has now listened to the message for me, and all it was was her asking me to call her. Gah.

I'm not going to parts of Vericon this weekend because Bitchface is speaking at a panel. Sometimes I hate how small a world this area is. I am, however, going to go get swoony at Lev Grossman Friday night. And I'm going to go see Caitlin R Kiernan at Pandemonium Thursday night. It turns out The Drowning Girl is so good that it's making me uncomfortable. I'm not schizophrenic, for all the diagnoses that I've acquired, that's not one of them, but she is So Freaking Good at writing about slowly unspooling that I have to consciously remember that I'm actually not in a bad place right now.

None of these are the things I want to be saying, but I can't figure out to actually talk about the anxiety directly, or about how I both want to see everyone all the time, and shut down a little. The soul selects her own society, and all that.

"dream with me, we'll wake in better light"

Hrmph. It's been a bit of a day. Work gave me notice that I might be getting a notice that I will be getting laid off. Which certainly isn't the end of the world, even if there's some atavistic impulse to start hoarding food and quit doing everything that involves money (gym, dogwalking, having nice things).

There's a message on my voicemail that I can't convince myself to listen to. It's my plastic surgeon, calling to tell me something about her research to find if there's any way to make my boobs bigger.

Phones and I have a long history of crazy. I've ignored them, dismantled them, refused to talk on them, had days when I had to spend a solid thirty minutes talking myself into calling someone.

Light has now listened to the message for me, and all it was was her asking me to call her. Gah.

I'm not going to parts of Vericon this weekend because Bitchface is speaking at a panel. Sometimes I hate how small a world this area is. I am, however, going to go get swoony at Lev Grossman Friday night. And I'm going to go see Caitlin R Kiernan at Pandemonium Thursday night. It turns out The Drowning Girl is so good that it's making me uncomfortable. I'm not schizophrenic, for all the diagnoses that I've acquired, that's not one of them, but she is So Freaking Good at writing about slowly unspooling that I have to consciously remember that I'm actually not in a bad place right now.

None of these are the things I want to be saying, but I can't figure out to actually talk about the anxiety directly, or about how I both want to see everyone all the time, and shut down a little. The soul selects her own society, and all that.