The Bloody Doors Off

I’m always looking for the meaning in things. Which can drive me mad because, honestly, some things have zero meaning.

Lady Gaga doing a Thanksgiving special, with the Muppets. If I was still on the sixth floor in H Wing, I’d think I was barking mad, trying to parse this.

I don’t know what I’m getting at tonight, except I’m tired of trying to figure shit out. I’m on a 2 week delay with the EI medical extension (even though I’m reporting the hours). If a cheque from work I did prior to breaking down hadn’t come in, I’d be rocking from side to side. Is this a teachable moment? How to deal with adversity? Or is it simply bureaucratic red tape and bad timing? Is there a difference?

I haven’t written in 2 days. I’m not freaking out over that, but I’m not happy about it. I have a twitter account but haven’t logged into it in months. The reason I think of this is I follow(ed) a television writer who would encourage her followers to do 1-hour writing sprints alongside her. It didn’t have to be anything specific; the point was to shut out everything else for 60 minutes and concentrate on writing. I can see now why that’s such an amazing idea.

I’m 47 and I have a zit under my jawline. Seriously?

I’m 47. And I don’t have a job, barely have rent and am trying to figure out what’s next. When I was writing the play, I could distract myself from these things for short periods of time. If I can get my brain and emotions to cooperate, I can get in touch with Second Career, although the career I had was working fine thanksverymuch. I’ve got what, 20 years before my only options are Wal-Mart greeter or working the morning shift at McDonald’s? (And given my anxiety issues, that’d be interesting.)

What have I actually done with my life?

Sorry, no music to encapsulate it tonight.