January 27, 2004

I said, my, my slow descent into Babbage-ism, it went...

AKA: What's the difference?

I think I've slept about 10 hours in the last three days.
No great feat, you say?
Neither do I.
More with less and whatnot.
But, there's no reason I should have slept so little.
Never has me owed so little sleep to so many.
Or something.
I did have to come up with an idea for my novel (a Mad Cow/Bill Gates/Wal-Mart/Goldfinger/Manchurian Candidate mash-up. I shiteth thee not, good sirs and ladies.)
And an idea for my play (about an NBA player and a talking dog are commanded by God to protect the second coming of the Messiah. OK, I kid, but I did have a dream about that.), and write 5 pages of it.
But to be honest, after procrastinating by:
Drinking, seeing bands, reading league of extraordinary gentlemen dos, going over to the smiths' place to watch Adult Swim (yeah, if this is your first time here at the spig, I don't have a TV, and I enjoy both feeling smugly superior and lamenting my magic-picture-box-less-ness. Also, if this is your first time here at the spig, you have to fight. And comment.)
It wasn't really that hard.
Oh, and freaking the fuck out cause I couldn't think of anything. But after that, it wasn't that hard.
But yeah, I got all that "school" "work" "done" (hey, when you're searching on google or something, and you use quotes, do you ever feel like Lloyd Dobler would chastise you for being like that Sheila girl?), I still can't sleep.
I spent all night re-aligning all the NCAA D-I Basketball schools into geographically coherent, historically sound, program cohesive conferences. Yep. Not kidding. Til 7am.
That and researching the tarot deck, the berlin airports, and ShowBiz Pizza (The Rock-afire Explosion Band fucking DE-STROYS!).
Man. I kinda sound like I'm coming unhinged.
I mean, when you take it out of context like that. It's all a perfectly logical progression, I assure you.

I'm scared. My amount of debt is now greater than my gross income has ever been for one calendar year. And growing.

To quote General Custer:
"I'm so fucked."

I'm used to being a wanderer, a vagabond, not having debt, not owning much, just kinda traveling and observing.
I guess what this all boils down to is the recurrent fear of failure.
What if I'm not a good writer?
What if I come out of this and end up bartending again?
What if this takes me 20 years to pay off, at $300 a month?
How do I drop everything and go to Mexico for 6 months?

My mom comes to town Friday.
My place is a mess.
And not like the "you've got 3+ days to clean it up, so quit your whinging"-type of mess. (AND STOP USING THE FUCKING AIR QUOTES, "SHEILA"!!!!)
More like the "have-about-5-times-as-many-books-as-have-bookshelf-space-for"-type of mess.

The "old-man-who-lives-alone-with-his-cats-and-reads-his-vast-library-
of-books-that-fill-the-walls-floor-to-ceiling-even-in-the-bathroom-and-kitchen"-type of way.

Posted by orion at January 27, 2004 01:40 PM | TrackBack