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Shortly before Aunt Tater died, I'd resolved to post a positive thought a day for a week. Nothing jerks you out of your happy place faster than death, however, and the resolution fell by the wayside. Now that the tumult of goodbye has subsided and life has begun to resume its familiar rhythm and shape and texture, I thought I'd try again.
And so, my happy thought for Monday is this: My car insurance is paid until May, there is a roof over my head and food in my belly and larder, and in a few hours, my secret TV boyfriend and I are going to have hot, steamy, panting eyesex while he drubs restaurateurs with their gross incompetence.
On the creative front, my only lament is that I don't have more mental stamina and more hours in the day. Even at my most energetic and enthusiastic, five pages per day is all I can manage before my brain gets tired. A doctor once told me that I expend four times the energy of the average person every day because even the smallest task is more physically demanding for me than for someone else. Hence, taking a dump requires four times the energy it ought because the muscles and nervous system have to work much harder than normal. This increased energy demand also includes mental activities such as writing and organizing my thoughts.
This explains a great deal, especially why I'm absolutely knackered after a good wank. Let's just say my fantasies aren't of the stop-motion variety. This also explains why most doctors put my life expectancy at forty-eight years, though I am determined to show them for fools. There's too much I want to see before I close my eyes forever, and I can't fit it all into fifteen years.
I just wish the doctors would have mentioned my shorter life expectancy when I was eighteen instead of thirty. If they had, I wouldn't have wasted so much time being terrified of all the things that might kill me. I would have seen more concerts and gone on more road trips instead of obsessing over the rent or getting an A on a meaningless term paper.
Anyway, the energy suck of my creativity makes it impossible for my fingers to keep pace with my nymphomaniacal imagination and the sheer volume of plotbunnies it produces. I'll never be able to write them all, and that's a wonderful predicament to have. It might just see me out of bed in 2025 and for many years after.
And so, my happy thought for Monday is this: My car insurance is paid until May, there is a roof over my head and food in my belly and larder, and in a few hours, my secret TV boyfriend and I are going to have hot, steamy, panting eyesex while he drubs restaurateurs with their gross incompetence.
On the creative front, my only lament is that I don't have more mental stamina and more hours in the day. Even at my most energetic and enthusiastic, five pages per day is all I can manage before my brain gets tired. A doctor once told me that I expend four times the energy of the average person every day because even the smallest task is more physically demanding for me than for someone else. Hence, taking a dump requires four times the energy it ought because the muscles and nervous system have to work much harder than normal. This increased energy demand also includes mental activities such as writing and organizing my thoughts.
This explains a great deal, especially why I'm absolutely knackered after a good wank. Let's just say my fantasies aren't of the stop-motion variety. This also explains why most doctors put my life expectancy at forty-eight years, though I am determined to show them for fools. There's too much I want to see before I close my eyes forever, and I can't fit it all into fifteen years.
I just wish the doctors would have mentioned my shorter life expectancy when I was eighteen instead of thirty. If they had, I wouldn't have wasted so much time being terrified of all the things that might kill me. I would have seen more concerts and gone on more road trips instead of obsessing over the rent or getting an A on a meaningless term paper.
Anyway, the energy suck of my creativity makes it impossible for my fingers to keep pace with my nymphomaniacal imagination and the sheer volume of plotbunnies it produces. I'll never be able to write them all, and that's a wonderful predicament to have. It might just see me out of bed in 2025 and for many years after.
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