There is this crazy idiot part of my brain that can't seem to let freaking go of the need for linear narrative that follows the timeline of events in my life. Because that is a journal, no? A written documentation of everything you do, including shitting, in a day? So the idiot part of my brain won't let me do a blog entry until I have ample time to sit down and really spell it all out and talk about Birdy's Birthday and her big party and all of the things that I loved and all of the things that made my hair stand on end. Can't possibly communicate until that is out of the way.
Alas, there is no ample time. My poor little gray matter is so fucking fried that this morning as I was fishing for my keys in the gigantoid over-the-shoulder-back-breaker of a bag I've been carrying, A. asked from the kitchen, "What is the salad dressing doing in the tupperware drawer?" Uh. I was making a salad? In a tupperware? For lunch at work? And then I short-circuited?
And later, as I was leaving class, I slung cold coffee all over the floor and the person standing next to me as I gestured in conversation, holding my (lidded, thankfully) insulated coffee mug completely upside down so it could drip coffee all over my pants and the afforementioned floor and classmate. Nothing like an upside-down coffee mug to make you look like one of those "what's wrong with this picture?" pages in a Highlights magazine. I'll tell you what's wrong with this picture, folks: ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag. More commitments than I know what to do with. Rushing everywhere. Forgetting everything. Meditation is no longer a difficult practice as the dismissing of thoughts from my mind has become nearly involuntary.
I think I'm going to participate in the Fussy Challenge of writing a blog a day for November. Because I need the kick in the ass.