Writing can be freaking tough.
The hardest part, I think, is getting started. I’ve been meaning to blog for months now, but sitting down and plunking out half-formed ideas on the keyboard is a damn stressful idea in itself. Where do I begin? How will I string together the words that I nearly have to claw to get out of my skull? And then there is the question of distraction. Over the years, this quiet, geeky girl has developed a form of adult ADD, which in all fairness has probably been around since childhood in a more mild variety. Well, in any case….oooh, there’s my doggie!
I suppose that cements my point.
"Times is hard", as the late, great, cannibalistic baker Mrs. Lovett observed,
and so it is in Catworld. I am employed, but bill collectors and student loan
companies have almost certainly placed hits on my spacey little head, and even
food is scarce. Dumb ol' me left mah peanut butter sammich at home today…great!
So my stash of “just in case I need something” was kind of depleted. On
Smoothie King (which was yummy, but really, now I'm broke). Still, there is the matter of - UGH - the car payment due this Friday.
Money stresses me out to no end. When my parents talk about finances around me, I need to take a xanax (or two). I avoid opening mail, which is usually from Sallie Mae (definitely not the sweet old auntie her name implies) or my bank or, God forbid, someone bent on driving me to consider suicide through litigation (this has actually been a problem).
It amazes me to think that I graduated from college almost three years ago, with a BA in English at that, and to this day I have hardly made progress. I did have a great job in a well-known book store until I was royally screwed out of my job *and* unemployment benefits, and I've been in a dark, dank pit of dark, dank pit-ness. Who would want to hire me? I'm unpublished so far, except for in my university's press, and that constant weight on my delicate innards, that bitch depression, has drained my inspiration juice like there's a hole in my brainpan. More like a sieve.
What is to become of me? Will I survive the next few weeks, when I have to take over my aunt's leasing company on two weeks of experience? Will I ever have time to write or paint again? Will any grad school accept me (I am pretty sure that is a resounding "NO FRAKKIN' WAY)? And more importantly, when will I get home? Connemara is calling me, and I can't stay away for much longer. I am horribly homesick for Ireland - my family, the countryside, the climate, the people, the history...sometimes the longing is so strong that I can't sleep. It's where I need to be, and I have good reasons.
Are you interested in those reasons? They are much less dire than the tone of this blog would indicate. In fact, they keep me upbeat and going when I feel like there is nothing left for me to hope for.
If hitting you over the head with this outpouring of dark, dank pit-ness hasn't fazed you, I encourage you to tune in for a much more pleasant post, coming soon (is tomorrow too soon? Well, I am an apathetic creature...)
Good night and may all my love and kitty cuddles go with you, fellow Earth-bound rejects.
