Well, friends… I wrote for awhile this morning – some of it good, some of it not – and then got stuck in the mire of the not so good. (I don’t know why I was writing what I was writing, nor who in the hell I was writing it for.) I took a break, forced myself to eat something, turned on a favorite, familiar drama series, and did some coloring on my phone. The goal was to relax, but I couldn’t.
I kept thinking about having to read Sometimes I Act Crazy. I heard a timer ticking in my head (though my timer doesn’t actually tick), and couldn’t breathe. “F*ck it!” I thought. “I am not attempting that sh*t again! It’s dark and frightening… and there ain’t no light at the end of that tunnel!”
But then, seconds before the cement dried on my resolution to quit, I decided to just suck it the f*ck up and get it over with; thinking with mock enthusiasm, “There is no fear greater than the fear that lives inside your batsh*t crazy head.”
I might have over-estimated the fear that lives inside my head; because thus far, this book is still pretty damn frightening. I’m into Chapter Two… and it’s still a very scary text about a horrifying mental affliction. One I may never control, nor ever escape. Good grief, indeed.