It's Friday. 8 hours behind a desk. 4 hours mulling around as a work hoss. Late night rages (hopefully I can stay up...) that seem like a bad idea for the ensuing 6 hours as a work hoss: hocking plates and glasses, cleaning up baby "cuteness", and pretending that everything's fine, just fine dammit. Because, I suppose, everything is fine. I mean, it's not going as planned, but maybe I'm a bad writer. The producer's rewriting it, and really, what does the author have to say in the grand scheme of a picture? It's just words, people would rather watch the movie anyways.

Oh. It's been a long day. And it's only 4:07. It's also been sort of an infuriating day. There isn't a particular reason. I just feel RAWR or like I might shake something, anything, for a prolonged period of time. Shake some sense. SENSE, damnit. Or scream into a pillow. Or claw my skin off. Or...so many options for an infuriating sort of day. Drink tequila. I think that's what I'll actually do. Drink tequila, alone.

I can feel myself going crazy. I know that I'm doing strange things, but I can't.stop.ohmygod.why.am.i.still.doing.this? Still sort of wish I could shake something, maybe punch? Eh. That seems like too much effort. Shaking, well, it feels like somethings vibrating on my insides. RAWR. If I just touch something solid, maybe it'll stop. I'm not angry. Just a little off-kilter.

4:12.

It's 4:12. I should go home. I should leave. now. get. out. go. somewhereanywherenow. I have some sort of excessive energy. Do something. But what? What would satisfy?

RAWR. RAWR. RAWR.

Maybe that's all I want to do. Scribble FUCK, FUCK, FUCK. on a piece of paper. I have several journal entries that amount to just as much. FUCK. RAWR. FUCK.

Damn. Make it stop or settle or something. Just calm the hell down.

Maybe I'm hungry. I want someone to eat with...I get so, eh, when I eat alone. I don't want to make the effort. It's all so unappealing. But I need to eat. something.

RAWR. FUCK. 4:18.

"Maybe you're a coward."

The words hit hard. A sledge hammer to the face. My mind winces, but I control my face. I'm exasperated, but I don't want to show it. I'd rather just shake it off indifferently. I only feel indifference. I've been living dead for longer than I can remember actually living.

I shrug. What use are words? I brace myself for my yelling. Loud. Strong voice of disapproval. I tell myself to find a happy place. Soon this and everything will be over. I have no reason to try to remember what happens next. It's just another memory I'm going to errand, and if I don't pay attention to it than I can't take the effort to forget it.

What's the fable about Rip van Winkle? Sleeping his life away? I keep hoping to wake up and have everything be okay again. Whatever okay might be I'm not sure...I belong in a fiction.