June 12, 2009

Maybe It's

Filed under: Life

Tired. I've been sleeping like it's punishment; like I'm a kid again, grounded, locked in my room with nothing to do. It still isn't enough, though. Within an hour or two of being up I'm exhausted. Halfway through the day I retire to the bedroom with the laptop and play a game of hearts or solitaire or spider solitaire or freecell or even - if I'm feeling REALLY fucking sharp - minesweeper.

Admitting defeat is popping open the BBC's iplayer and lazily learning about different cultures, different mythologies and different histories. Sometimes one show's enough, sometimes I need two. After two, though, my stomach begins getting restless and I'm back on my feet making dinner or cleaning up or checking on the rats because twenty minutes of nodding off in front of an LED screen is about as close as I get to napping. (<- I'm an AWFUL napper, I only sleep out of schedule when I'm REALLY sick or having a mother of an effing period.)

Maybe I'm still recovering from a touch of heat stroke. (The only thing I was wearing that day was a sports bra. It hadn't occurred to me to, oh, I don't know...COVER MY FUCKING HEAD AND SLAP ON SOMETHING WITH AN SPF FACTOR IF I WAS GOING TO SPEND 6+ HOURS IN DIRECT SUNLIGHT DOING MY NUDIST GARDENING THING.)

Maybe I'm still recovering from lower GI issues. (Last Saturday we went to a one day "foodie" event - Taste of Grampian. I don't know if it was the venison burger shared with Italics, the jams and preserves I tested, all the crackers that were eaten when tasting the jams and preserves, the bread, the ale, the gluten-free cakes, the three different varieties of rapeseed oil, the cheeses, the oatcakes, the oak and elderberry sparkling wine or the local Chinese takeaway we shared after a day of eating our way through regional food that slayed everything south of my gall bladder for nearly a week. <- I'M MOSTLY LOOKING AT YOU, SATAY SPECIAL. THERE'S A REASON WHY YOUR TEMPTING SAUCE OF DEATH AND FARTS IS NO LONGER WELCOMED IN THIS HOUSE.)

Maybe it's the nightmares, the dreams, because I've never been good at dealing with the aftermath of one-on-one time with my subconscious. (TALKING AND EMOTIONS AND INTROSPECTION AND FEELINGS WEAR ME THE FUCK OUT. I DON'T WANT TO THINK, I WANT TO //DO//. I'M SOVIET STOCK - HARD, REPETITIVE MANUAL LABOR MAKES ME FEEL SATISFIED DEEP DOWN IN MY SOUL.)

Maybe it was the full moon, or the fight we had on Friday. Maybe it's all of the lame, gay ass, new age ENERGY WORK I've been doing. Maybe it's the bizarre, yo-yo weather that's forcibly halted every aspect of gardening. (For two weeks now it's rained every day in short Amazonian bursts; the ground never really dries despite the frequent blasts of sun. It's hailed and rained with the sun streaming, it's thundered and rainbowed in the wake of heavy, grey darkness. It's been two weeks of fragmented memories of what summer was like in the Midwest.)

Christ only knows what the fuck IT is, I just want it GONE so I can get back to my life. (I AM TWENTY-FUCKING-NINE, UNIVERSE, IT'S NOT LIKE I'VE GOT A LOT OF TIME LEFT HERE, YOU KNOW. HELP A GIRL OUT HERE.)