I woke up today feeling like I might just start freaking out and never stop. I cannot do everything. Something, somewhere must give but I don't know what that will be.
Last night I dreamt that my son was a bag of salt I'd been hauling around all this time and that I had been imagining him for the last twenty years and only NOW just realized that he wasn't real. I took him out for ice cream and suddenly I was sitting on a park bench, holding two dripping ice cream cones, trying to feed one of them to a 50 lb bag of salt.
Later on, I dreamt I was trying to eradicate a plague of head lice roughly the size of dimes--not on my own head, but rather, the heads of strangers.
It is time to deconstruct Christmas (in the literal, rather than the literary sense) and this always makes me sad.
I need to carve out more time for writing & editing. I need to stop drinking sweetened beverages. I need to stop talking so damn much. I feel like I am made of vanilla pudding, that I am soft & bland & utterly without structure.
My January horoscope recommends that I prepare to be wildly successful.
At making pudding, probably.
Watching: LOST, Season 6 (again)
Reading: Men, Women and Chainsaws by Carol Clover
Feeling: distinctly pudding-like with a touch of the vanilla moon.
Another Copy of Thirsty Bones
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