This woman hates me so much I’m starting to like her.

I just realized I haven’t watched anything but Stevie Nicks documentaries and live concerts on DVD in a while.  Typically, I only allow myself to listen to music when I’m exercising because it’s the only way to get me to do it.  Lately, it’s all I do in my free time, but it hasn’t been long enough to mess up my exercise bribery scheme.  Whew.  (I don’t have a Plan B.)  I guess tomorrow will be a long run, and that’ll be my only music fix for the day.  I’m going to listen to In Your Dreams by Stevie Nicks, and The Open Door by Evanescence, and Tuesday Night Music Club by Sheryl Crow.

If it plays longer than my route, I’ll keep listening while I stretch.  I’m already looking forward to it.  I’m going to feel like Wonder Woman.  I’m off Prozac for the rest of the summer.  Or, I guess I should say until it snows.  So who knows, but as long as I can run outside.  I don’t like to run for more than an hour at a time on the treadmill, but I can break it up.  After my fall last winter, I’m too paranoid about falling again (on the ice outside in the snowy weather, where my imagination has assured me in advance I’ll die miserably.)

Note:  In my particular case, if I eat wisely, and do four hours of cardio per day, I feel exactly the same as when I take 20mg of Prozac per day, (minus the side-effects.)  If I do two hours of cardio per day, I’m uncomfortably close to frustration overload 24/7, but I can survive.  Less, and things go downhill quickly about two months after my last dose.  I’m weird.  Don’t try this at home.  Besides, finding out how many hours of exercise it takes per day to be the best me possible is exactly as fun as it sounds.  So do what’s right for you.

The thing about Prozac is this:  It interferes with creativity, sex drive, and for some people, appetite.  In my case, no sex drive, (and I started taking it soon after I realized I even had a sex drive.)  If you don’t know your sexual identity yet, don’t take Prozac.  I was a late bloomer.  I thought boys were gross until I met my ex-husband at nineteen.  If anything, it decreases my appetite when I’m initially adjusting.  It also makes me extremely sleepy for the first few weeks.  Others become overeaters for the first time in their lives.  It’s mean like that.

I want to turn off my Muse-repelling force field known as Prozac so I can do some artwork and find out the rest of this melody that keeps haunting me.  I don’t have it as bad as some.  I can ignore the urge to create if there’s something I’d rather do.  The Muse is a gentle whisper in the night for me.  For some people, she’s also a bitch with handcuffs.  But they’re usually outstanding at what they do so it might be fair.  I’m not sure how much choice they have in the matter.  They’re probably too busy being awesome to care.

I’m feeling balanced again, thank goodness.  You’d think after years of coping with PTSD I wouldn’t get so freaked out every time I hit a rough patch.  Nope.  I freak out every fucking time.  I imagine it’s like being in a fire.  No matter how many times it happens, it’s always alarming.  Plus, I think my mind lets me keep most of those times in short term memory.  Yay brain.  I finally let M. help me adjust my drum kit.  It was noticeably leaning because I loosened something I regret, and it just happened.

I was still playing on them after a few adjustments (without fucking with the rack.)  Now that M. helped, I’m a bit blown away by how much difference it makes.  It was worth the kick in the nuts to my ego.  I got over myself immediately after I started playing.  I’m starting to get pretty good.  I’m almost confident enough to start creating my own beats.  I only lack the practice hours.  My stamina is better, my timing is my strongest skill, and I rarely drop sticks anymore.  The part on my fingers where I lost the skin before getting gloves is calloused, but it’s barely noticeable (compared to what strings do to fingertips.)

I’m so happy to be feeling better.  I got busted singing twice today, but I tend to do it constantly when I’m happy.  It’s almost as good as the relief I feel after passing a kidney stone.  It’s a shame they can’t bottle the post kidney stone feeling and sell it as a drug.  On second thought, maybe it’s a good thing you have to suffer intensely for a while before you get to experience it.  It makes it addiction-proof as fuck.  I just cracked myself up.

I’m off to finish deep cleaning the carpet while listening to the rest of Al Franken, Giant of the Senate from Audible.  I love him.  I probably look silly laughing for no apparent reason every few minutes, but it’s excellent.  It’s helping me cope, and teaching me a lot about politics (in a way that doesn’t make my eyes glaze over.)  I forgot how powerful humor can be in learning.  If you want my full attention, make me laugh.  It’s my favorite thing to do in the world.

 

I hear everything.

The Depression Monster has me in a Full Nelson.  (I had to use Wikipedia.)  I’m no longer able to ignore him, but I’m flipping him the bird.  I’ve learned studying Stevie Nicks requires a commitment of sorts.  You have to accept the fact it’s going to hurt sometimes, or you have to move on.  I didn’t even need to think about it.  I like earning my passage into her world.  It’s calmer.  I also like how it doesn’t matter that I’m out of sync in time.

I’m on the second documentary now.  It’s called Stevie Nicks:  In Your Dreams.  I’m at the point where Katrina happened.  Fuck.  I wasn’t ready.  You can tell Stevie directed and edited.  It’s raw where it needs to be, and soft where it’s not.  I suppose this is a trigger warning.  Pause when you see the first hint of Katrina coming next.  It will be obvious now.  Make sure you’re in a safe place to ugly cry.  Get tissues and a few bottles of water.  Round up your pets, and your favorite blanket.  Then take a deep breath, and hit play.  You’re welcome.  (I do this because I love you.)

This hasn’t happened since I spent hours listening to Amy Lee (Hartzell) sing, Hello and Like You on repeat, while I wept with her over losing our little sisters.  It’s a good thing I eat intensity for breakfast.  I never thought I’d say that.  I’m so used to people telling me I’m too intense, (and having it sound like, “fuck off.”)  I’m glad it keeps proving valuable where it matters.  I slept on Tuesday night, so I should be good for a while.  I started writing my short horror story last night.  In hindsight, it may have been better to do it in the morning.

I learned some secrets about fear years ago.  It has a ceiling.  There’s nothing beyond scared shitless.  Further, I discovered there’s a limit to how long you can remain terrified.  I’m sure with practice you could extend it, but for most of us, it’s a relatively rare event.  It’s intense until you run out of energy.  Then it’s surreal.  It stays surreal while you recover a bit.  Then it repeats a few times, like a chorus.  But it has diminishing returns.  Your initial level of terror is greater than your fourth course.  Eventually, it just becomes hysterically funny.

Don’t look at me, I didn’t create these rules, I’m just reporting them.  This is how humans process prolonged fear.  At least the ones who don’t pop straight away, that is.  It’s not good news, but I believe it’s better to know up front.  I hate surprises.  So anyway, my point is I’ve learned how to cope with fear.  I don’t flee at the sight of it.  It’s a bitch, but so am I.  And you can refocus your eyes, I’m done giving myself a pep talk.  I plan on writing more tonight.  Last night I wrote two pages, then deleted them and started over.  I thought about an outline, then didn’t create one.  Finally,  I wrote two better pages.

Creative writing clearly had a far greater influence on my writing than English Grammar.  I love rules, except where creativity is involved, at which point it reverses.  Rules are for one type of thinking.  Creativity is for the other.  They don’t mix.  Mixing them should cause profound halitosis.  That’s how serious I am.  Incidentally, when my orchestra instructor tried to tell me how to feel about Beethoven, I noticed he had funky breath.  (I don’t believe in coincidences.  I’m far more impressed by irony.)

This is the closest I’ve ever leaned into my blog.  I’m incredibly impressionable, so it’s likely Stevie Nicks’ influence on me.  I’m becoming a little more open.  I didn’t see any of this coming.  Despite the tears, I’m having a fabulous time.  It’s a little like following a rabbit down a hole if you know what I mean. 😉  I have a long night ahead.  I’m off to get to it.

They’re real, and they’re spectacular.

I didn’t get much done today.  I mostly watched a Fixer Upper marathon on HGTV while goofing around on Twitter.  I did, however, get a strong recommendation for the new Adidas Ultra Boost running shoes.  I ordered some, along with a few other items.

I can’t wait to break the shoes in.  It got up to 62F yesterday, but dropped back into the 30’s today.  I had all my windows open when I went to bed, and it was 56F in my apartment when I woke up.  My cat was under the covers, so that should have been a clue.  I turned on the heat for a while after closing the windows.  Now it’s around 63F, right where I like it.  I’ve decided I’m not keeping this apartment when I move.  Yesterday, there was yelling in the parking lot of the building adjacent to mine.  There were police cars and a police dog apprehending someone who was shouting repeatedly that he wasn’t going with them.  It was scary.  This is the second incident involving police in a month or so.  When you add that to the cooking smells from whoever lives below me, it’s not worth maintaining.

I declined going to Denver this weekend.  I need some down time after NYC.  I’ll probably go this spring.  In the meantime, I’m going to work on a new quilt.  I’m going to do paper piecing, I think.  Once I find out what that is, and how it works.  I want to make a more traditional style quilt, but with modern fabric.  So it might require wearing sunglasses to view it, but I’ll still like it.  I finished the Cookie Monster quilt.

My lightsaber showed up in the photo, too.  I think it turned out fairly well.  I need to remove some specs of white from the color catcher I washed it with.  My stitching is a little off in places, but that was before I learned about measuring for my specific machine, not just the standard 1/4″.  The binding is black satin, and it’s the perfect size for the sofa.

Amy Lee of Evanescence released a new LP titled, Recover, Vol. 1.  I love it, and am going to listen to it on repeat until I fall asleep.  Again.  I can’t believe it as only about $4 on iTunes.  Granted, it’s exactly 4 songs.  But still, I would have paid way more.  I’ll probably buy it again on Amazon Music, just to support the artist.  It’s so good.

Adele is So Dope

I’m headed to Denver on the 23rd.  I’m excited to go, even though it’ll be a short trip.  I’m too cat-paranoid to go for more than 4 days.  Plus I’m a homebody, so anything longer would just make me anxious anyway.  I’ve had a headache all day today.  Not debilitating, just constant and annoying.  I didn’t sleep last night, so that’s probably why.  I finished a book by Felicia Day called, You’re Never Weird on the Internet (almost).  I bought it in August, but had several books ahead of it to read first.  I liked the book.  She’s pretty relatable.  She’s really smart, neurotic, funny, and talented.  I love that she’s also a violinist.  And that she has a math degree.

I followed her on Twitter for like a week.  She didn’t have much to say that interested me.  I suck at following celebrities.  I probably shouldn’t bother.  Except for Amy Lee and Evanescence, of course.  The only other celebrity I follow is Wil Wheaton.  He cracks me up a lot, and never annoys me.  I follow a lot of authors too.  But I culled some famous ones for various reasons.  Neal Stephenson rarely tweets.  Same goes for Ernest Cline.  Patrick Rothfuss gets a little odd with his tweets at times.  John Scalzi tweets a LOT.  He also annoys the shit out of me with his insecurity driven arrogance.

He’s got the same views as I do politically, and shares his thoughts on current events.  However, any time someone criticizes his work, he loses his shit and tells them not to read his books.  It’s not even funny.  There are a lot of assholes out there who get their jollies from being hyper-critical asshats to famous creative people.  Most are of course hurt by this, because human.  But when the creative famous person responds by channeling their inner toddler, it makes a bad situation worse in my opinion.  Go hug your wife and count your money or something.  Just don’t get all butt hurt over it and respond.  Obviously, anyone with the time and gumption to do such a thing is an asshole who wants attention.  Don’t encourage this type of behavior by giving them what they want.

Adele Live in NYC is on.  She’s so awesome.  I remember a commercial from when I was a kid about a cassette tape company.  I know.  Shut up.  Anyway, it was Memorex, and their motto was, “Is it live, or is it Memorex?”.  Adele would have been so perfect for this concept.  She’s the real deal.  No bells and whistles necessary.  In the age of autotune, Adele is a diamond shining brightly amid many rocks.  Thank goodness she exists.  The world is a better place because she sings.  She’s beautiful, too.

She’s getting a standing ovation, and is crying over the response.  I’m surprised she gets so nervous when you consider the fact that she brings it every time.  I can think of 3 singers that blow me over like this.  Adele, Kelly Clarkson, and Amy Lee.  Adele has the audience standing up and singing Rolling in the Deep with her.  That was the first song I heard from her.  She was at a radio station singing live, because the radio dude didn’t think she could sound that good live.  She proved him wrong in a major way, and won my heart at the same time.  Also, when ‘fuck’ was one of the first words out of her mouth when she did a huge show in London, I knew instantly that I loved her.

I love that all three are awesomely talented, humble despite it, and they all 3 choose some really intense and difficult music.  I appreciate that in an artist.  I’m not impressed by pop fluff songs that even I can sing note for note.  Music is communication to me, and the lyrics are only part of the message.  I think it matters so much to me because it’s one of the forms of communication that I can use consistently.  I’m still not talking out loud, but it’s not bugging me anymore.  I found a blog of another autistic woman who has the same issue, and that made me feel better about it.  I eliminated some of the things that were stressing me out.  Now I just have to wait for my anxiety to catch up.

I’m looking forward to my trip to Denver.  Even though it’ll be for Christmas.  I don’t celebrate it.  Just another day.  Even when I was a Christian, I didn’t.  Jesus wasn’t born in December, and the holiday was appropriated from pagans.  So it’s a bullshit holiday on many levels.  The blatant consumerism and the lies are messed up.  I loved it as a kid, though.  I think it’s a holiday for children, and those who feel obligated to buy them gifts.  I can’t fault an adult for being sucked into the cuteness tractor beams of a child who wants a gift.  That shit is impossible to resist when you don’t have kids of your own.  I spoil the kids in my life, but I’m pretty sure it’s half of what being an aunt is all about.  The rest is listening with a straight face when they bitch about their parents, and agreeing with them in a noncommittal fashion.  I totally rock the role.