Talked to Death

For a person who whines about the isolation of writing, it's pretty easy for me to get fed up talking. 3:15am. I hate these nights. I go to bed at a reasonable hour but I can't sleep through. I end up waking up at some awkward time of the night/mourn, hangover in full bloom, left to meditate upon all the stupid things I may have said or done.

Tonight wasn't even that crazy. We presented a new scene of Fahrenheit at the BMI Workshop. I bought some food/drinks for my collaborators afterwards. I was a bit anxious to celebrate coz I finally got PAID something, after a month and a half nosedive. Three stupid drinks and I'm babbling like a nincompoop. About Fahrenheit, about Butcherhouse, about blah blah blah.

I am not a super-toy that lasts all summer long. I can wind up but I will wind down. And I know when I'm on the downward turn, and that's when I start searching for my exit.

But I'm thankful that I crash. That I can suffer unpleasant aftermaths from 3 girlish drinks. That I don't feel compelled to drink all night, or night after night. You can waste so much time talking about what you want to do with your life.

Enough. I hate in myself what I hate in others.

Salvation through work.

This is a very good week for getting things done and overcoming humps. This vehicle runs on self-contempt, and the fuel is cheap and plentiful. Don't come near me.