Saying, I told you so, is not as satisfying when you’re talking to yourself. At least I can say I saw this coming. I’m burned out. I felt inclined to push it because I suspect my social endurance has increased. It has, but not by as much as I was hoping. Everything I do right now takes an inordinate amount of effort. It’s irking me. I don’t want to waste an unpredictable amount of time in slug mode. Slug mode sucks. I had things I wanted to do, and now I have to turn my routine upside down, and focus on getting out of slug mode. Dammit.
I just got a new video game. My new desk will be arriving next week, and I wanted to work on getting that set up. Just the thought of unboxing it seems impossible right now. I’m only halfway done with my laundry, and the idea of finishing before I go to bed makes me want to cry. But if I don’t finish it, I won’t be able to sleep. I’ll be too busy mentally chastising myself for not finishing my chores. That path leads to the Dark Side. So I’m going to give myself 3 hours. In 3 hours, I can finish my laundry, while listening to a comedian on Netflix. Hm. No, I think I better bring out the big guns. The secret weapon in my Fuck the Depression Monster arsenal. I’m going to watch Wanda Sykes: I’ma Be Me on DVD, while I finish my laundry.
I’ve had this DVD since it came out, but I’ve been saving it for a moment like this. I tend to memorize dialogue I pay attention to, so I rarely watch it. This will be my third viewing, and it came out in 2009. The first time I saw it on HBO, I laughed so hard, I threw up. Gross, I know. You know how when you’re laughing your ass off for a while, and wiping away tears, you start getting a bit hoarse? You feel like a little kid begging your older sibling for mercy after they’ve tickled you for too long. And just when you feel yourself finally starting to wind down, here comes another something hilarious, and you cough out your next laugh? Well that happened, but it must have been extra hilarious, because I cough-barfed. Not one of my more glamorous moments, to be sure. It’s. That. Funny.
So I guess I’ll accept that regardless of my feeling like a bag of pre-chewed food right now, as soon as I find the gumption to turn on the TV and pop in this DVD, I’ll forget how much being Autistic feels like having to carry a radioactive boulder every time I leave my home. It drains me of life, and seemingly gets heavier and more intense the longer I’m gone. Sometimes. Okay. Off I go. As soon as I count to 10. If I get to 11, it will mean I’m giving in. I won’t get to 11.