Almost at Pooh Corner

I suffered an anxiety attack this afternoon. I've been subconsciously waiting for the meltdown since the Son of Himmler knocked on my door two weeks ago, and today was the day. There's nothing more embarrassing than horking while your mother holds your face over a plastic bowl, but such are the hazards of being disabled in a non-accessible home. I was better after a shower, but the humiliation lingers even if the sickly-sweet yurp of vomit is gone.

I managed a thousand more words on my latest ficcing project yesterday. I was going to write more today, but barfing has a strange way of filling one with a logy, stupid lassitude. Odd when one considers that vomiting is an act of evacuation. I should feel cleansed. Instead, I feel dull and uninspired. Worry devours me like a sweetmeat. I want my ATM card. I want to be sure my monthly stipend has transferred to the new account. I want to feel grounded, based somewhere that is mine. This persistent rootlessness unnerves me. The renter has left my new home, and we might begin the moving process early tomorrow, since Papa Chris has, for unknown reasons, chosen not to attend his mother's memorial service on Tuesday. I suspect familial friction, but it's not my business, and that is that.

If I do move tomorrow, I might not have Internet access for one to six weeks. I'll see you at the other end of the tunnel when the fiberoptic light goes on.

Almost to Pooh Corner

I suffered an anxiety attack this afternoon. I've been subconsciously waiting for the meltdown since the Son of Himmler knocked on my door two weeks ago, and today was the day. There's nothing more embarrassing than horking while your mother holds your face over a plastic bowl, but such are the hazards of being disabled in a non-accessible home. I was better after a shower, but the humiliation lingers even if the sickly-sweet yurp of vomit is gone.

I managed a thousand more words on my latest ficcing project yesterday. I was going to write more today, but barfing has a strange way of filling one with a logy, stupid lassitude. Odd when one considers that vomiting is an act of evacuation. I should feel cleansed. Instead, I feel dull and uninspired. Worry devours me like a sweetmeat. I want my ATM card. I want to be sure my monthly stipend has transferred to the new account. I want to feel grounded, based somewhere that is mine. This persistent rootlessness unnerves me. The renter has left my new home, and we might begin the moving process early tomorrow, since Papa Chris has, for unknown reasons, chosen not to attend his mother's memorial service on Tuesday. I suspect familial friction, but it's not my business, and that is that.

If I do move tomorrow, I might not have Internet access for one to six weeks. I'll see you at the other end of the tunnel when the fiberoptic light goes on.