The thing about my present predicament that I deeply resent is the fact that I don't have my own pc or laptop 24/7. Ever since April, I've been moving from one sibling's house to the next and this has disrupted my literary life. I can't blog as often as I want to and I can't even write my column anymore. I'm thinking of getting a cheap laptop, something temporary, but even temporary laptops cost a lot of money (as if there's a disposable version I can just throw away after I've used it for an hour or so and which would cost me 99 cents). So right now, you could say I'm in a state of (literary) limbo.
I'm trying to write down all of my thoughts in a steno notebook, but without Google and a thesaurus by my side, it's so hard to write. Which makes me think, am I going dumb or am I just making excuses?
This week, I've been jotting down bits and pieces of my everyday life: my weekly commute, my crazy and impossibly long train rides, getting lost amidst dozens of people who seem to know where they're going (while I don't), my friend Mr. Loneliness who has an on-going hot and torrid affair with my other friend Desperation, my secret affinity (and on-and-off addiction) to what I call "Bolshevic roll-ups" which I'm not quite ready to reveal yet lest my clueless mother reads this blog or this column (if I do decide to have this published), my over the top obsession with Stephenie Meyer's Twilight saga which is not even intended to be read by people my age (gah, I feel as ancient as Edward, the book's undead hero), my libidinal relationship with canned sausage (er, that didn't come out right), and all the other inane and not so inane concerns that I have regarding my impending future. How can I blog or write about these now when I can't even sit in front of a computer for longer than 30 minutes?
These few months have both been hell and heaven for me. I'm like a sieve sorting out the bad from the good, the happy from the utterly miserable, the pitiful from the triumphant. My experiences have run the gamut from ecstatically sublime to down-in-the-pits-of-hell gloom. It is appalling to be this close to being Bipolar and I can't even self-medicate because, hey, this is America. You can't just go to the nearest pharmacy and buy a bottle of Paxil. The closest to peace that I can conveniently have right now is a capsule of Tylenol pm. Ugh!
But don't fret, people. I've been here before. I don't know for how long and how far (but only within the confines of North America) I can last and go, but I will try my best to push myself up until the moment when my brain together with my heart finds a solution to my predicament. In the meantime, I'll tip-tap away using my nephew's pc and blog and bitch like everything is perfectly imperfect.
I'm trying to write down all of my thoughts in a steno notebook, but without Google and a thesaurus by my side, it's so hard to write. Which makes me think, am I going dumb or am I just making excuses?
This week, I've been jotting down bits and pieces of my everyday life: my weekly commute, my crazy and impossibly long train rides, getting lost amidst dozens of people who seem to know where they're going (while I don't), my friend Mr. Loneliness who has an on-going hot and torrid affair with my other friend Desperation, my secret affinity (and on-and-off addiction) to what I call "Bolshevic roll-ups" which I'm not quite ready to reveal yet lest my clueless mother reads this blog or this column (if I do decide to have this published), my over the top obsession with Stephenie Meyer's Twilight saga which is not even intended to be read by people my age (gah, I feel as ancient as Edward, the book's undead hero), my libidinal relationship with canned sausage (er, that didn't come out right), and all the other inane and not so inane concerns that I have regarding my impending future. How can I blog or write about these now when I can't even sit in front of a computer for longer than 30 minutes?
These few months have both been hell and heaven for me. I'm like a sieve sorting out the bad from the good, the happy from the utterly miserable, the pitiful from the triumphant. My experiences have run the gamut from ecstatically sublime to down-in-the-pits-of-hell gloom. It is appalling to be this close to being Bipolar and I can't even self-medicate because, hey, this is America. You can't just go to the nearest pharmacy and buy a bottle of Paxil. The closest to peace that I can conveniently have right now is a capsule of Tylenol pm. Ugh!
But don't fret, people. I've been here before. I don't know for how long and how far (but only within the confines of North America) I can last and go, but I will try my best to push myself up until the moment when my brain together with my heart finds a solution to my predicament. In the meantime, I'll tip-tap away using my nephew's pc and blog and bitch like everything is perfectly imperfect.
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