Broken

I think my head is broken. I don't hear any bolts or shards of metal rattling around in there, but maybe that's just because it's mostly empty, or filled with those non-biodegradable packing peanuts.

I have not been writing. What's wrong with me? I love writing! I miss writing. I am close to the end of my novel, and the thought of finishing it makes me so happy. The thought of editing and revising it makes me happy, too! So why am I not working on it?

After NaNoWriMO ended, I did write a few times during the first couple of weeks of December. But then I got extra busy with Christmas stuff, and then the week of Christmas I was in a retirement home in GA, away from a computer. When I got home I was busy with miscellaneous stuff like going to a funeral, and I was also just really tired and a bit stressy. But now I am back into just regular old life, and I still haven't written.

Part of my problem is that my work schedule varies so much. I would love to get into a daily routine and do the same thing every day, I think that would make things a lot easier for me. I could set a time and write at the same time every day, and get into a habit. But I leave home anywhere from 7:30am to noon, and get back home anywhere from 5:30 to 10:00pm. I really hate that about my job, actually.

The horrible thing is, I really want to write and I know it would make me happy to write. I finally figured out what bliss it is for me, but am I doing it? Nooo. And here's what my stupid head is doing to me: for the past couple of weeks I've been having nightmares, just about every night. Mostly public restroom nightmares, of course, because that's almost exclusively what my bad dreams dream are about. I've had dreams of dark, shadowy cavernous restrooms with no actual toilets to be found anywhere, huge mazelike abandoned factories, people vomiting, having to make my way down unsteady metal stairs rotted away with rust, accidentally walking through foot-deep sewage. Ugh. Shut up, head, I already know I should be writing! My head is just being MEAN.

Here's the extra stupid part. I look forward to writing, when I'm in the car on my long commute, when I'm at work, when I'm in the grocery store,  I can't wait to get home and get some writing done, and hang out with my characters.  I can't wait to see how the things I have planned for them actually end up happening. But then when I'm at home, somehow, it doesn't occur to me. It's not that I keep putting it off to finish the laundry or watch a movie or whatever, it actually doesn't even come to mind, I just completely forget. Until it's too late, like when I'm on my way to work again, or when I wake up at 4am after a bad dream. Seriously, my head is broken!

However, for the next three weeks I actually do have the same schedule (that never happens), so I am determined to start a pattern. TODAY. I had a pattern going during November. I guess I should say I want to start a nice, happy write-y pattern, not a bad stupid nightmare pattern, which is what I've got going now.

Drinking and Peeing

Alcohol lies to me. It tells me that I'm not nearly as drunk as I really am. It seduces me into thinking that the fifth bottle of Mich Ultra, the third dirty martini, the fourth Jeager bomb are a great idea when in fact I am solidly on track for a night of embarrassment and vomiting, and a morning of headachy hangover regret. Alchohol is the devil.

There are some things that, at my advanced age, I have managed to figure out. One thing I know about myself is that I think, nay, I know, that public restrooms are scary and gross, always. Even the ones that look clean still have incipient germies that are just waiting to leap onto my privates and have a party. I know this, with every single molecule of my being, and will not be talked out of it by "scientific studies" that "prove" otherwise.

So my fail-safe drunk-o-meter is: peeing. I can tell how drunk I am by just thinking about going to the bathroom. If the idea of putting my delicate bare bottom directly onto a toilet seat seems reasonable, I need to stop drinking immediately.

If I'm sober or close to it, I follow my usual routine of cringing into a stall, pulling off the top few sheets of toilet paper and tossing them into the toilet (they are contaminated with invisible toilet-flushing germy spray), pull off a "clean" wad of toilet paper, and hover above the toilet seat while making sure none of my clothing is touching any part of the toilet base. Upon exiting the stall, I wash my hands, then open the bathroom door with a paper towel. If the restroom was spectacularly gross, like in a rest stop or a convenience store, I then follow up with some hand sanitizer.

If I am buzzy but not drunk, I will loop happily into the restroom, hover above the seat while hanging onto the stall door, wash my hands and not worry too much about touching the door handle on the way out. If I am drunk, I'll plop my butt right down onto the seat. I'll flush the toilet -- hopefully I'll remember to flush the toilet -- with my hand instead of my foot. I'll most likely primp a bit in front of the mirror and then bounce out the door, completely forgetting to wash my hands.

One terrible, awful, very bad night saw me staggering into the bathroom, peeing on myself slightly when I couldn't fumble open my pants fast enough, tipping sideways off the toilet seat (because of the spinning restroom, you know), staggering directly back out into the bar without stopping at the sink or even glancing in the mirror (whether or not I flushed remains a mystery).

So now, after I have one drink, I'll do a systems status check: would I sit on a toilet seat? If the answer is no, I might have one more drink. If the answer is yes, alarm klaxons go off in my head that send me looking for a bottle of water and something solid to eat, like an entire loaf of bread, maybe.