Suspended Animation

This is the close of the weekend that wasn’t.

English homework.
Check for comments.
Write letter.
Buy hairspray.
Finish old blog.
Make new blog.
Record podcasts.
Find ‘Polka’ lyrics.
Test new hair dye.

I have so many things to do. I feel like I need to be pumped full of coffee and smacked around the head a few times. It’s either not enough or way too much sleep. The days are disappearing. The tedium of the everyday is directly proportional to the amount of unique fulfilment obtained at other times.

I think I must have lost all my reader(s). It has nothing to do with the time between comments, it just feels like it was the straw that broke the camels back; due to revealing more about my personal nature, and in words used by people on the Box to describe dreadful Dolls fan fiction previously, my “masturbatory imagination”.

I am forgetting everything. If I don’t write it down it slips through my fingers and all I am left with is the memory that it was the single most profound thought I ever had. If I do manage to write it down I lament the effort lost in committing that mundane rumination to paper. And yet all the while I blog.

Madness. Reality. Best described by the thing Lorelai of Gilmore Girls said on today’s episode repeat:
…my brain is a wild jungle full of scary gibberish. “I’m writing a letter. I can’t write a letter.” “Why can’t I write a letter?” “I’m wearing a green dress.” “I wish I was wearing my blue dress.” “My blue dress is at the cleaners.” The Germans wore gray. You wore blue. ‘Casablanca’. ‘Casablanca’ is such a good movie. ‘Casablanca.’ The White House. Bush. “Why don’t I drive a hybrid car?” “I should drive a hybrid car.” “I should really take my bicycle to work.” Bicycle. Unicycle. Unitard. Hockey puck. Rattlesnake. Monkey, monkey, underpants.
This, is a marvellous reflection and piece of scripting. My mother hates them because they talk too fast, I just think they’re neurotic and awesome.

It’s my hormones, I know this. It’s killing me. I’m losing it. It’s the same little girl who was sitting at the dining table screaming her lungs out over a broken glass just a few months ago. Why me, why now? Why is this all such a big deal? How do all the other stupid immature brats grow to be average members of society from this? I just can’t stop thinking. Thoughts, bombarding the inside of my skull, all the time the refrain “I must sleep.”

This is all the fault of television you know. I stayed up watching Lipstick Jungle. I only watch it because I was deprived of my trashy girly sex drama because my mother wouldn’t let me watch Desperate Housewives or Sex And The City.

It’s past 12:38 am.

Am I too young for a creative crisis? Was lack of purpose my purpose for the time being? I just want to smash everything. They say that if you have insomnia the best thing to do is get up and do something productive for 15 minutes. I can’t make muffins now. This is my second glass of water. It looks so nice in the light of the fire.




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