“I’m buying the Frogger machine. Now the torch will burn forever.”

It’s a melancholy day.  I’m sad Tom Petty has passed.  I’ve been listening to his music all day.  The massacre in Las Vegas has me in a full body clench.  I don’t understand how anything could lead to such an act.  Nothing is more precious than life.  How can any circumstance negate this fact?  There are no words or gestures of empathy to soothe.  Just the ugly, pervasive knowledge it’s only slightly more horrific than the last massacre.

I refuse to be inured to violence.  I’m pretty sure it’s not possible in my case, anyway.  I still have nightmares from allowing curiosity to get the best of me regarding Game of Thrones.  I read the books.  I should have left it at that.  Instead, I watched it on HBO, up until The Mountain crushed Prince Oberyn’s head.  That scene really messed me up.  I haven’t watched so much as a clip since.

Other extremely violent scenes bothered me, but that scene annihilated my curiosity for the story.  It may have been a cumulative factor.  I don’t watch anything violent, now.  I’ve exceeded my tolerance for life.  I don’t care that it’s acting.  I’ve seen my best friends head beaten to a pulp by her raging husband.  I know what it looks like in reality.  I know what it smells like in reality.  I wish I could forget.

I’m tired.  I finished reading the Mists of Avalon series.  It reinforced my atheism.  I’m reading Reckless:  My Life as a Pretender by Chrissie Hynde, presently.  I’ve only just begun, but am already delighted I’ve found that for which I didn’t realize I was searching:  A woman’s perspective of the time period I’m studying.

It’s well written and so descriptive, I sat on the floor and drew horses with child Chrissie Hynde, while we discussed the state of humanity, (in my imagination.)  I walked with her all over her vast childhood domain in Ohio, and observed intensely with her (without shame.)  I met her parents through Chrissie Hynde’s eyes and understanding.  (It prevented any automatic dismissal based solely on their political inclinations.)

I also grew up in white America.  I too benefitted from white privilege and feel compelled to correct any tainted views born of a sheltered childhood in racial isolation.  (You don’t have to be of Caucasian descent to be tainted by white privilege.  Growing up in America more than suffices, which is kinda the point.)  I’m still learning how to broaden my perspectives to an inclusive and righteous viewpoint.  I don’t allow myself to feel resentment for having to relearn how I think.  (It’s just disguised overwhelm, anyway.)

I visualize it internally as removing a dam in a river one pebble at a time.  Walking into the river, bending and picking up a single rock, then returning it to the shore calms me.  It’s a favorite meditation.  It reminds me the journey is as important as the destination.  I’m girl crushing pretty hard on Chrissie Hynde.  😂  It makes me happy to spend some time in her head and recognize she’s brilliant and thoughtful.

I know songwriters are storytellers.  I just struggle to believe any interpretation of lyrics that don’t come from the mouth of the writer.  Most songwriters don’t tell their fans what the songs mean to them.  It used to piss me off, but now I see it’s more a gift.  What it means to the listener doesn’t have to match what it means to the writer.  It took a while, but I got here.  🙃

I know Chrissie Hynde’s story has darkness ahead.  She foreshadowed, plus I know a bit from interviews.  It helps when I can see it coming.  I’m a bit surprised how well I handled the darkness of Mists of Avalon.  I do feel betrayed by the author for inventing unnecessary horrors that could have been omitted without affecting the story.  If it doesn’t drive the plot, why bother?  Why hurt the reader for no good reason?

It hurts me when creators use violence as a spice.  When I put myself in their figurative shoes, I can’t fathom a positive cause.  The seeking of an edge through violence is to writing what Axe cologne is to frustrated virgins.  Rape is violence.  It’s the act of forcibly stealing someone’s free will.  It’s still barely a crime and becoming less so thanks to the Predator in Chief and his Merry Misogynists.  I guess the book series upset me more than I realized.

I thought I would get past this inner fury from having my free will dominated.  I thought it would lessen and fade over time, like most pain.  I see now it was wickedly unreasonable of me to expect such.  I live on a planet where rape scenes are considered entertainment.  Where the average adult is so numbed to acted violence, they don’t seem to feel despair over the reality.

I’m long past harboring a desire to fit in on earth.  (The thought alone made me laugh out loud.)  I cling tightly (internally) to those I meet on this journey who are also horrified by the horrors of life.  Knowing I’m not alone is comforting.  Alienation feels a lot like homesickness.  I’ve just never been home.  Too bad it doesn’t lessen the longing.  At least I know it’s a state of mind, not a location.  I’m pleased to share the path with Chrissie Hynde.

Not everybody knows what the crop circles are.

I’ve learned a bit about executive function since joining Autistic Twitter.  I just read my Pocket Sister’s blog describing her adventures with this challenging quirk.  It involves a phenomenon familiar to neurodiverse humans.  The executive function primarily entails the mental ability to manage time and focus.  Mine is spotty at best.  I find the most frustrating aspect to be losing words.  It nullifies my vocabulary acquired from spending so much time reading novels.  It complicates my ability to communicate with others.

Imagine trying to successfully express a complex concept using only the words contained in a nursery rhyme.  That’s as close as I can describe what it feels like to communicate with most other people.  The words I can consistently recall in real time when anxious are the words I had learned by rote before comprehension was a factor.  When I speak of being on auto-pilot, it could also be described as functioning by rote.  It’s my recovery mode.  It’s what happens automatically whenever I’m outside my home, and my anxiety gets triggered.  I suspect I spend more time on auto-pilot than not.

Anxiety is the bane of my social existence.  The worst part; it’s justified based on my history of socializing with others.  It’s absolutely the logical way to feel when attempting something I’ve failed at so many times.  I’m human, and we all need social contact with other people to some degree.  It’s a need I’ve tried to eradicate before, (always striving for efficiency.)  I couldn’t pull it off.  Instead, I just keep trying.  I stopped keeping track of how many times I’ve fucked it up.  It was discouraging.  I’m not seeking fame or popularity, (I couldn’t type that without laughing at the thought.)  I just need enough socialization to prevent my becoming too weird.

By too weird, I mean the way all humans change when isolated from other people.  We start talking to ourselves, and to inanimate objects (Wilson!!!).  When we do finally encounter another person, we tend to overshare overlong.  There’s more, but you get the picture.  I’m trying to socialize with other humans enough to prevent losing the ability.  It’s absolutely a Use it or Lose it skill.  So I put up with feeling anxious and inarticulate.  I’ve gotten used to needing a paragraph to express a sentence.  It’s hard because I value conciseness.  I find it easier to write than speak.  By quite a bit.  I just haven’t been able to convince those in my world to restrict their communications to text or email.

I’m working on a virtual presence device.  My first obstacle is designing one that won’t result in theft, vandalism, teasing, etc.  It’s a fun project, and I intend to use it often once completed.  As long as there is tech, I’ll find a way to fit my square peg in this round-holed planet, and I’ll have fun in the process.  I’m off to beat my drums with sticks.

I don’t even really work here!

It rained all day today.  It’s still raining now.  I don’t like when it’s also windy because it blows the water under my umbrella, rendering my battle to keep it above me futile.  I was drenched by the time I finished my Meals on Wheels route.  My last stop is inside an apartment complex with long hallways to reach each unit.  I’ve gotten lost in this odd complex more than once.  I suspect it used to be two buildings, and they later built a lobby in between, connecting them.  I have to remember which side for each unit because there are two apartments with the same number on each floor.  The division is only noticeable on the ground floor.

All three of my clients have made a habit of meeting me in the lobby for about a month now.  I have a hard time keeping my giggles inside during that stop because I imagine they underestimate my intelligence based on my building navigation skills.  (Or the lack thereof.)  I don’t know why it amuses me so much when people underestimate me.  I don’t lift a finger to dissuade misguided estimations because I can’t imagine a scenario where being more capable than expected is a con (for me).

I need to work out a few bugs in my delivering.  I don’t pull into people’s driveways, I park on the street.  This is because I can’t drive backward (well).  Backing out of that many driveways in a 90-minute window is statistically unwise.  In fact, based on my current record, it’s likely it would result in no less than four incidents a week.  By incidents, I mean me spontaneously rearranging the front yard landscaping by lurching and braking every five feet until I go over the curb and hit the street again.  (And that’s practically a best case scenario.)  Sigh.  I do much better driving forward.  I think it’ll be easier to work out the kinks when the weather acts right.

I’m going to look into volunteering for Habitat for Humanity soon.  I don’t know how to build a house, but I can use a hammer.  I need more physical labor in my life.  I love how it makes me feel, and it’s probably the best option for my insomnia.  (I won’t take prescription sleep meds.)  My body sleeps when it needs it badly enough.  I’d just prefer feeling more rested than what around three hours a night provide.  I’m convinced I’d act more like a morning person if I got up in the afternoon.  I’m off to read.

I have to open a bottle of ketchup for her.

Lately, I’ve thought a lot about core values.  I haven’t paid much attention to philosophy (because it should be called wishful thinking.)  Wishing is for childhood.  Adulthood abuses wishers.  Tinkerbelle dies every time in reality.  But as a child, you may have been allowed to indulge.  Sorry nobody warned you it was temporary.  Philosophy should be expressed and experienced in childhood.  Reality beats Philosophy about the head and neck until it dies pitifully.  Like from Syphillus.  Or a bottle of poison.

Adults who insist on fantasy instead of reality raise my blood pressure.  I don’t think I’ll have a heart attack, though.  My picky diet is surprisingly good for my circulatory system.  Also, the smell of bacon repulses me.  My brother used to enjoy chasing me up a tree with the bacon from his breakfast.  My knees, elbows, palms, chin, and shins show evidence of my experiences.  I’ve left a lot of skin specimens on concrete, tree trunks, pavement, and grass.  I blame activities involving wheels, blades, and helmets, poor decisions, and gravity.

When I fell during a run in basic training, my Drill Sgt. put his face inches from mine and yelled at me for bleeding on his hill.  I was on the verge of tears, but his tirade led to my laughing in his face, followed by regretting it, then mopping up my blood with the edge of my t-shirt.  When I was 27, I stopped taunting Gravity.  I stopped because Gravity got tired of my playing too much and smacked me hard.  It was one of those pains so shocking you analyze it while experiencing it out of awe.  I don’t fuck with Gravity anymore.

Identifying my values versus what I remember by rote takes concentration.  I’m determined to recognize what exactly I value more than my life.  I’m aware I overestimate people habitually and am preparing to rectify this behavior.  I’m strategizing for war.  Triage is crucial at this point.  I’m figuratively zeroing my weapons and eliminating the unnecessary to keep myself light and mobile.  I despise violence.  I used to live by a nonviolent philosophy.  Unfortunately, it was beaten out of me.  So I grew up and insist on truths instead.  I don’t hit first.  I hit back with everything I can muster.

Growing up with eight older siblings was violent.  I can’t imagine having five older brothers and not knowing what it feels like to be punched in the face.  Or shot at point blank range with pellets, bbs, and paintballs.  Or carried around by your head (that was when I decided to fight back).  The last time my brother, Guy, picked me up by my head, I broke his nose with the crown of my skull.  I didn’t know it could have killed him until years later.

It also startled him and made him see me differently.  I went from distracted and passive to overwhelmingly violent without warning.  He didn’t know how much he was hurting me by his actions.  He also didn’t realize the obvious reaction was to jump to prevent what felt like having my head pulled off.   Don’t ever pick someone up by their head.  It’s a horrible thing to do, and it might be the last thing you ever do.  The only results I endured after breaking his nose was a life free of being lifted by my head.  I’m off to read, then think some more.

He took it out.

I joined the resistance movement.  I’m still not sleeping much.  I’m averaging 2 hours a night, according to my Fitbit.  I’m about to begin a collaboration with another blogger, so that’s exciting.  I held a contest with a group of friends to write a funny version of The Twelve Days of Christmas.  Two of the winners have agreed to let me share their hilarious versions.  One of the winners is deciding. Next post, I’ll share the ones with consent.  I regifted them the Amazon gift cards I received for purchasing with my Echo device on Black Friday and Cyber Monday as prizes because they’re also Seinfeld appreciators.

My efficiency suggestion led to my getting an office at work, so now my mini trampoline is a go.  Yay.  I’m glad of this change as I work better alone.  I have to remind myself that I’m working a job, not a career.  My career days are history because my country is in crisis.  I now work a part-time job and keep my expenses minimal, so I can fight to protect our rights full time.  I had fun earning money to pay for things I wanted but didn’t need.  Priorities have changed, and are no longer me-centric.  I’m part of we, the people.  That’s where I invest from now on; in non-hateful American people.

If I like their race, how can that be racist?

It’s supposed to go down to -26°F tonight.  That’s actual temp.  Then it’s going to warm up next week.  We usually have a few nights like this every winter.  It’s what I call biting cold.  I had to walk to my car in -22°F last winter.  It was about 20 yards, and I was near tears by the time I got in my car.  I wasn’t appropriately dressed for the weather.  It’s a funny thing about city people in winter.  We have two modes:  Dressed For It, and Just Running to My Car.  I have everything necessary to endure a night in the Arctic, but most often I wear a light down jacket, knit hat, and I run whenever outside.  It’s not terribly windy right now, which helps.

I’m going on a ride-along with a neighbor who’s a sheriff tonight.  He’s funny, so it’ll be fun so long as we don’t find any frozen dead things.  I’m going because I really can’t take another news story about a teen who broke down and froze to death trying to walk home.  Or a homeless person, or a mother, etc.  This way I feel like I have a little bit of control.  Last year a woman froze to death within steps of the door to a shelter west river.  I go from happy-go-lucky to can I just die now whenever I’m reminded of the precariousness of life.  I’m starting to suspect this is an autism thing.  I’ve noticed autistic friends who share this trait.  We’re generally happier, but can also be thrown into despair by what neurotypicals tend to shrug off.

Maybe I’m only observing people who are surprisingly similar.  At least my autistic friends encompass a wide diversity of adult autistics.  I used to get angry when people compared autistic adults to children.  It felt like an insult meant to hurt.  After much thought, I think what they’re picking up on is how we interact with the world.  In reality, they should include all neurodiverse people and many neurotypicals who are probably borderline, making us the majority of humans, meaning we’re normal and the standard is weird.

Having come to that conclusion, I decided we’re all weird, and I like that.  We just need to be kinder to one another.  If I seem child-like, it’s because I’m living in two worlds simultaneously.  My inner world, and the outer world.  I prefer my inner world, I just can’t spend as much time there as I’d like.  My cat won’t allow it.  Adulting won’t allow for it.  So I stretch and strain and struggle to force my square peg into the round hole.  It’s exhausting.  It feels like sprinting uphill.  My boss at my new job caught me singing twice so far.  The first time, he looked at me like I just ate a bug, and asked if I was singing.  I looked up, nodded, and went back to work.  The second time, he started playing air drums.  How did I not have a crush on him in high school?

He’s married with children now, so I can’t see him that way, but he’s a fun guy, (fungi).  It turns out I do code unusually quickly.  I have to apologize to Sean now.  It’s going to be a text apology with lots of colorful emoticons.  I like my new job better.  I like being a peon.  It’s a great way to recover from being a leader.  I pretend I’m a Cyborg typing to the computer in it’s chosen song.  I love that game so much.  I hope they get over my singing while I code.

I haven’t breached the topic of bringing my trampoline to work.  I think I’m just going to stay on course, and Kramer it.  I’ll bring it on Monday, and set it next to my desk like it belongs there because it does.  When I feel frustrated or get interrupted, I like to speed jog on my portable mini-trampoline.  It’s so fun to just run as fast as you can while going nowhere until you can’t help but laugh.  It uses up all my pent up frustration in seconds and undoes some of the damage of sitting.  I can’t code or game on my treadmill desk.  I’m not coordinated enough.  I made my guild god lose her shit when trying to tank and walk.  I fell off the world again, and every toon died.

I need a treadmill that moves my toon the same way I move my body.  When they sell those to consumers, I’ll be all over it.  I rearranged my living room and bedroom.  At some point, I must have smacked my hand against something hard, because I have a huge bruise on the back of my hand.  It looks like I tested a foundation meant for Wesley Snipes.  I want to see a movie where it’s just Wesley Snipes and Samuel L. Jackson yelling at Dane Cook and Carlos Mencia for not being funny.  For ninety minutes in a military latrine (acoustics), while Matt Damon, Taye Diggs, and George Clooney sit in Eames lounges laughing uncontrollably.  Please, and thank you.

I want Judd Apatow to direct it, and Louis CK to write the script.  Also, I want Melissa McCarthy, Ellen, and Rosanne to interrupt whenever they feel like it.  That is all.  No.  I spoke too soon.  Anna Kendrick and Aubrey Plaza have to be in it too for my friend Collin.  Maybe they can live-tweet it on camera.  Yes.  And soundtrack entirely by Twenty-one Pilots doing whatever they want because I love them.

Then cut to Will Smith finally receiving his Oscar for best supporting actor in Six Degrees of Separation.  If you haven’t seen that movie, stop being mean to yourself and watch it.  The cast includes Stockard Channing and Donald Sutherland.  That’s right.  That’s all you need to know.

I can’t believe you gave him my pink shirt!  You’ll understand why that’s hilarious after you see the movie.  (It’s not even a spoiler.)  Speaking of which, I haven’t seen Rogue One yet.  It’s hard to type that without crying.  I’m just not where I need to be for a movie in the theater.  I hate that I can’t go see every sci-fi or action film the night it’s released.  I hate that PTSD and autism prevent me from seeing lots of films that interest me.  The cost is just too high.  It seems like the older I get, the lower my tolerance for overstimulation.  That seems illogical, which infuriates me.  I don’t know how to distance myself from what’s happening on the screen in real time.  I can’t figure out how to get my shields to activate.  It sucks.

I don’t know if I’m alone on this, or if it’s something many of us face.  If you struggle with it too, please acknowledge in comments.  Thanks.  I’m overtired.  I didn’t sleep last night, and when I tried to nap I couldn’t settle down.  It feels like I’m using sandpaper for contact lenses.  I’m going to take a bath, then curl up and watch The Flintstones on my Raspberry Pi 2 B that is a dedicated cartoons player.  I ripped all five seasons to a USB 3.0 SSD 64GB hard drive and installed Kodi on the card.  I want to add The Jetsons, King of the Hill, The Boondocks, and Aqua Teen Hunger Force in the near future.  I may need to get a bigger hard drive, because I just realized I want to add We Bare Bears, Steven Universe, Bob’s Burgers, Archer, Teen Titans and Hey Arnold.  I got a 10″ HD screen that has a case for the Raspberry Pi on the back.  The whole device cost under $190 at Amazon.  Cartoons make life better.






Come on, just look at me. Tell me I’m not Kramer.

I’ve been waiting for what I see coming since the day I walked the grounds of the Dachau concentration camp memorial near Munich.  That was the worst day of my life.  It’s the day I became an adult.  It’s the day I witnessed pure evil for the first time.  I knew evil existed and caught glimpses, but I was in denial.  I didn’t believe humans were capable of pure evil.  It was the day I discovered lying to myself was futile.  My innocence died painfully as I processed my surroundings.

I decided I will do what I know to be right, no matter the cost to myself.   I made my choice, and I’ll uphold it for life.  I possess the discipline, character, and wit necessary to wield a deadly sword in the real war.  I learned from the mistakes of our ancestors.  Some of them are still living in Bavaria.  They were my neighbors.  They were no different than you or I.  They were not evil.  For almost all of them, their horrible crime was choosing their life over their honor.  I’m not that audacious.  I’ll make the right choice.

For me, it’s easy.  I’d rather die a slow painful death than live a slow painful life.  I’m impatient.  I have no tolerance for human suffering.  If I’m afraid, I want to go first.  I’m a protector.  I don’t think it was ever a conscious decision on my part.  Birth order, perhaps.  That inane sense was magnified by my service.  Being an adult increases it even more.  I probably should have spent more of my childhood socializing, and less reading and writing code.  But here we are.

I’ve always been impressionable.  I copy what I see others doing and saying sometimes.  (I hear it’s an aspie thing)  My older siblings considered me a form of entertainment.  When teenagers, they would enlist me to repeat things that should never come out of the mouth of a sweet little six-year-old girl, (knowing I wasn’t comprehending a word of it.) I’m only irked I wasn’t old enough to realize why I was hilarious.  However, I did enjoy watching them fall apart laughing.  Especially the few times I caught my mom laughing, too.

I’m just putting that out there before I mention it said, “Tell your mom I said thanks,” in the memo line on the check I wrote to the guy who hauled away my excess junk.  We’ve been exchanging smart ass comments via text a few times a day since he noticed.  He walks the very fine line between hysterically funny and offensive.  I love that quality in a person, probably because I’m addicted to belly laughing.  It’s the ab workout I’m okay with.

I wrote a love letter to Microsoft for the Surface Pro 4 in a feedback form earlier.  I write as many sappy compliments to companies as I write complaint letters.  I know.  I’m a dork.  It started out as an assignment from my mom to persuade me to work on my atrocious handwriting.  It backfired because I found our typewriter, and I’ve been writing them since.  My mom got me to maintain a balance between compliments and complaints, at least.  My handwriting sucks even more, though.

Usually, I write my compliments to Amazon and Dell.  I’m a bit surprised they haven’t gotten restraining orders, I love them so much.  Hy-Vee is another company I gush over.  They’re the trifecta of my consumerism.  They earned my loyalty with excellence.  I’m a cheerleader for awesome.

The ACLU contacted me, and I’ve been invited to my state capital to defend LGBT, immigrants, refugees, women, and people of all faiths during the upcoming legislative session.  The last time I was there was with my high school debate club.  I won the extemp category because the judge didn’t know black people could talk intelligently.  I know!!!  I put the plaque under the rear tire of the bus before we left.

My debate partner was a low talker.  It made it hard not to giggle whenever it was her turn, and that was before I saw Seinfeld.  I ordered some dressier boots to wear in Pierre.  I usually dress like Howard Wolowitz with a kicks fetish, but I know how to look professional.  I could always wear my Army dress uniform.  Olive green polyester is eternally fashionable, right?  I’m off to read.

Well he looks like a man. I know he belches a lot.

Today was rough.  I have a sinus infection that feels like a severe toothache anytime I lean my head forward, lay down, or continue having a head.  I got 2 hours of sleep, and they weren’t consecutive hours.  I had a challenge to meet today, as it was the first day I’ve physically gone to work in a while.  I pulled it off.  Having my schedule broken seems to have been the biggest obstacle.  We talked about this in therapy, and I began to berate myself internally for not recognizing this on my own.  Then I forgave myself, because there’s a direct relation between sleep deprivation and lowered ability to function.  Last nights attempt led to at least 25 minutes of staring at the wall for no apparent reason.

The sinus pain isn’t constant, thank goodness.  I’ve used a neti pot, warm compress, cold compress (big mistake), and steamy showers.  They all help some, but only for a short time.  Then it’s back to severe pain that comes and goes several times an hour.  I have a high pain threshold, so the pain level is surprising to me.  It’s not as bad as a kidney stone, but it’s up there.  It doesn’t evoke a string of curse words, like a kidney stone.  But I do feel legally obligated to inform everyone I encounter how unbelievably painful it is for a measly sinus infection.  When I woke up this morning, (after my nap), the pain surged when I stood up.  I immediately wondered if going to work would be a good idea.  Then I figured since it’s going to hurt regardless of my location, I may as well grab a victory while I suffer, and make it suck a little less.

Obviously, I realize going to the doctor would quickly resolve this issue.  However, I’m just not up for going to the VA.  I hate going there, and my reason feels insufficient sometimes.  I had to get a pressure dressing applied in the ER at one time.  The nurse who treated me was blatantly racist, and made absolutely certain she didn’t touch me.  She glared at me, but the doctor was nearby, so she didn’t say anything.  Her disgust made her efforts pointless, and I had to ask a different (non-racist) nurse apply a proper pressure dressing while I dripped blood on the floor.  That was the second incident involving a racist employee at my local VA.  Both work in the ER.

So I haven’t gone back.  If I’m dying, I’ll suck it up and go anyway.  Short of that, not likely.  I realize my reaction may seem extreme, but from my viewpoint, it’s wise.  I’ll be moving soon, and won’t have to put up with them ever after.  I’ve never heard of anyone dying from a sinus infection.  Putting up with the pain is better than sitting in the waiting room.  Sleep is overrated, and I just started reading “The Girl on the Train”.  So far, it’s held my interest, but I’m not enjoying it, yet.  There’s something wrong with the tempo, and I don’t like how the viewpoint bounces back and forth.  It would have been more engrossing to give one whole viewpoint, then the other, and let the reader gasp at the incongruity between them.  The way it’s written makes me feel dizzy, but it might just be that I was overtired at the time.  I’m off to read.



I don’t think you can return an item for spite.

Today flew by.  I’m out of town visiting my sister again, so I’m way too disoriented to keep track of time properly.  My anxiety is too high.  I feel like I’m waiting for the starting pistol to fire, signaling me to run like I’m being chased.  Knowing I’m being chased by my own fears is intensely frustrating.  I want to meet those fears head on, but I haven’t even managed to identify them yet.  I feel like I’ve lost my place in my own life story.  It’s uncomfortable.  I know it’s temporary.  It just sucks right now, while I’m figuring out how to get through this unexpected detour.  It’s hard to concentrate lately, especially on abstract concepts.  I think whenever I take a hit to my ability to concentrate, I panic a little.  It’s one of my superpowers, and I rely on it heavily.

I tend to be either scatter-brained, or hyper-focused, with very little time spent in the middle.  I suspect my level of interest plays a large factor in this.  I’ve been reading a lot.  I re-read Lock In by John Scalzi last night.  It’s another favorite.  Reading is my favorite way of dealing with insomnia.  I think I’m going to re-read something by John Irving next.  Last Night in Twisted River will do.  He’s in my top 5 of authors.  I’m feeling the loss of Pat Conroy, so he’ll likely be up after that.  I’m off to read.