I am coming apart; unravelling like the hem on a pair of cheap polyester pants.
All I want to do right now is read. It's either read or drink myself blind, and I don't have the luxury of drinking right now, as I have too much stuff to deal with. For me, reading is usually just as good as drinking, if not better. (Although -- don't get me wrong -- I certainly do my share of drinking. And even, on occasion, other peoples' shares too.) When I read, I am Not Here. The phrase "lose yourself in a book" is so true for me. I open a book and instantly, my life ceases to exist; I am in another world, not my own. The problem right now is that I am so filled with anxiety, I am having difficulty concentrating on what I am reading. I also have little time for it right now.
I waiver between this constant low level thrum of anxiety that manifests itself as a ball of iron in the pit of my stomach, to moments of heart-knocking existentialist terror, and back again. There seems very little point to it all, some days. Very little point.
Things suck right now. Well, do they really objectively suck, or am I just a sniveling, weak, self-absorbed twit unable to cobble together the mammarian fortitude to deal?
*ponders a moment*
I'll take B for $200.00, Alex.
