Soup's On

I'm trying to write this story in the living room, and it's difficult.

I've made my demands for the television to be off. I've let people know that I intend to sit here and get some substantial creativity flowing onto these virtual pages. I've got the lap top atop the lap, yet...nobody's taking me seriously.

Nobody's allowing me to have the peace and quiet I need to focus on the character development. Nobody's skedaddling into other areas so I can concentrate. Nobody's shutting up.

It's like...they think I need to be part of their "intellectual" argument simply because I am within proximity of the ongoing conversation. They're so lively about the things they're saying to each other, and every once in a while, they expect me to chime in with my take on the story, which has nothing to do with the story going on in my head. Nothing to do with me at all.

We oughtta just bust out a deck of cards and a six-pack.

Because I am not getting anything accomplished in this environment

And its been going on for a few weeks.

And it needs to stop.

Because I need to write this story.

The Obvious Cure?

Sometimes, for no reason at all other than I might be slightly crazy, I'll start stressing out about my life. I don't know why this happens. Life hasn't thrown me a curve ball. Nothing is going extraordinarily awry. No little surprises have sprouted up lately. Everything is just as wild and turbulent as it always has been.

The ball is still rolling.
The wheel is still spinning.
The fire is still burning.

Everything is just as expected, which means that nothing is going just as expected.

So why am I suddenly getting nervous about something as mundane getting the oil changed in the car?
Why does Halloween suddenly seem like such a chore?
Why am I standing in the grocery store getting upset over avocados that aren't ripe enough for guacamole?
And why are you looking at me like that? You got a problem?

The only extended period of time I've ever felt this way was the five years I spent hauling my kids around in the womb, but I couldn't possibly be pregnant. Aside from the fact that I have remained (relatively) celibate for the last couple of years, I don't even have a uterus anymore, so I'm one hundred per cent positive that there are no little creatures growing inside of me, throwing my hormones out of whack and causing me to have fantasies about stuffing the sperm donor down the garbage disposal.

This constant state of worry stifles my creativity. I cannot think in complete sentences when I am stressed, let alone put them down on paper. No best-selling novels will be written today.

I need an outlet- something with fewer calories than chocolate and more satisfaction than watching rich people shop for houses on HGTV. I need to do something physical to burn this unexplained adrenaline pumping through my system.

(I should clean my house. I should organize my bookshelves. I should go jogging.)


psh.

Who am I kidding? I'll never go jogging.
.
.

So Be It

A feeling of dread came over me today as I was driving home during rush hour traffic.
As my tires crunched slowly over the debris not yet cleared from the most recent accident, a little white Chevy cut off two lanes of traffic and pushed ahead to get to the I-40 on-ramp, startling those drivers who were next in line. They slammed their brakes and swerved. The little Chevy didn't give them a second glance or a sorrowful wave or even the finger.
There's nothing to be done aboout it, so the rest of the law-abiding drivers simply sighed, or cursed, or whatever they did, but they just moved on.
Road-rage doesn't seem to exist in this little part of the world. We simply accept the craziness and push through the day.