I want all things related to my brain to fit neatly into one box, column, or category. Life would be so much easier that way. I guess, to some extent, this is how many of us feel — it’s why people will stretch their realities to make horoscopes fit their lives. It’s why we adore reading pages that break us down into our Myers-Briggs categories, or why we like to find out which type of potato chip we are.
I’ve been sitting in my bathtub for an hour, reading a book and occasionally refreshing the water with a fresh burst of heat.
I’ve been through an entire relationship since the last time I wrote a blog post. Not sure what it says about my blogging or dating.
My journey to online dating began like so many others.
Boy meets girl –> boy and girl fall in love –> boy and girl get married and have babies –> boy and girl fall out of love –> boy and girl divorce.
I’ve had a near-complete mental block on writing for months. The months prior were a slow closure of the door to my thoughts, creaking ominously, rather than a sudden slam; I could write, then I could write occasionally, then I could sort of write, and then I could barely write at all. I tend to blame it on the Wellbutrin. Sometimes directly — the medicine that keeps me from wanting to walk endlessly into the Gulf of Mexico is also taking away my passion. Other times, I feel it is an indirect side effect of the main point of the drug – it makes me not depressed, and we all know that writers only write when the tell-tale heart is being knocked upon by the black thing with feathers that will not stop for death.
The other day, I ate probably six pieces of Dove chocolate, one after another, like an actual chocolate vacuum. I barely took the time to get the wrapper off, even less read them. Most of them were boring anyhow, but I appreciated these two, especially as I was trying to tape that second one back together.