I still have writer’s block, obviously, but if I didn’t I’d love to crank out something like this: That old hag.
Good advice, that, even if you take kids out of the equation. Which is obviously another decision point I struggle with. I’m simply resentful of the opportunity cost of everything these days. When doing one thing, I can’t do the opposite, which makes reality bite the way it does. As much as some quiet me time would be good for my brain and body, I can’t seem to give myself any. I’ve never liked to be alone; I’ve always had a sibling, or a roommate, or a paramour, or a spouse about, and even an annoying other present trumps being annoyed at myself, as silly as that sounds. My whole adolescence I was either out with friends or asleep in the basement. I don’t live alone, I just can’t. Well, I could, but I don’t. So it’s difficult; I crave the distractions of life, of other people. Constant overstimulation, but it will not numb me. I won’t let it. Numb is how I fall down the rabbit hole and don’t know who I am or why I should even care how big or small I feel. It’s not that bad until I stop caring at all. So it’s not that bad yet. I still care. That’s something. I’ll take it.