I’m moving in three days. I’ve packed nothing. Gifts for tomorow sit unwrapped in bags I brought them home in.
Two trash bags sit full in the can, one teetering atop the other. A small pizza box is propped up on the floor. I am staring at a dead camera, a dusty lamp, a days-old cup of take-out coffee and about 18 post-its with story and essay ideas.
And I’ve got writer’s block. Something awful.
I’m hoping it’s seasonal. I’ve got the stress of an upcoming move, work is out of control presently (in terms of how busy we are, as well as my hatred for it), I’ve been broke thanks to my GETTING BENT on the primo shifts. But now I’m sort of not broke, though I’m still just sort of hanging in there. I’ve had this jaw problem–this thing with my TMJ muscle where my fucking face bones rub together in the most excruciating way you can imagine. I’m all out of muscle relaxants. My jaw clicks when I talk or eat. By the end of the day the left side of my face is hot and swollen-feeling on the inside. I should add face doctor to the dental, gyno, optical and stylist appointments I need to make. Oh, and I’ve been doing what people in therapy call “work,” wherein I cry a whole bunch and think about how fucked up that shit I called “growing up” was. I am just discovering how utterly sad I am. Not depressed, sad. I’ve been finding it hard to get it up to laugh, even.
So. I am thinking the writing thing is temporary. Writing about not being able to write is about as retarded as it gets. But before I sat down to write this entry the thought of even a single sentence seemed impossible.
This is at least fifteen or so.
