Benedict SexyPants

I have nothing notable going on. Um, I worked out today to try get rid of cramps and train for the 5k I want to do. I wrote some last night. I plan on writing more tonight. I miss the Viking fiercely, and it’s been less than three weeks since I last saw him. My general well being is good.

<.<   >.>  ^i^ (Eyes looking side to side then a shrug)

I should dig deep within myself to find something profound and word worthy, but fuck that noise. I like it. It won’t last long. I am going to try to start writing my blogs on a regular basis again. Except Saturday, I refuse to make promises about Saturday because those are my Viking days.

My brain is back to rolling around quickly, and I’m getting bored. It is fabulous. It means I’m not completely absorbed by some crisis or depression. It means it is time to get back to work. I had something worked out in my brain for the next phase in the novella I’m writing. I remember I really liked it, and it added another layer to the story. Of course, I only sort of remember what it is. If I still smoked, I would light a cigarette and pace about a bit talking to myself. I don’t smoke anymore.

Oh, I want to keep live bees in a box at the Viking’s house. They would help the planet and plants and crap, and I could steal their honey and wax and make all the things. Maybe next spring…

I could try pacing and talking to myself without the cigarette, but it seem like it would be as effective. I should have probably written everything down, but I didn’t realize at the time I was about to enter a profound depression then life would go nuts for several months. Had I realized that, I would have probably written it down.

I’ve been watching a lot of British television so the voice I primarily think in has British sounding word choices and pacing. It is better than when I watch a lot of Modern Family. My thinking voice turns into a slightly unstable Colombian when excited when I watch several episodes of Modern Family. I think part of my brain might actually be a slightly unstable Colombian.

I might have forgotten where I was going with one element of my story, but I got into therapy. It seems like a good trade off. I think what I’m doing is considered counseling and not therapy. I don’t care what its called, it works. I go and spend an hour a week or every two weeks and talk to the same person about where I am and where I am going. She tells me stories to help me realize things. I can’t explain why it is helpful. I just know it is.

I feel the most sane I have in my life since I asked for help with being something less than sane.

We talk a lot about the fact so much of our ideals of perfection are total bullshit. We talk about how the game of image and fitting in is total bullshit.

It really is a game, the game of image. There is this strange drive to control our image and to fit our selves into these pieces and move around the board. Some of us are really good at it. Some people are given really good boards and good pieces. They are attractive or the right kind of smart or wealthy or have enough common sense to fit in well. Some people just get okay boards. I’m pretty sure my board and pieces came from Goodwill. The board is a bit broken and several of my pieces are missing.

I used to frustrate people because I wasn’t better at pretending to be normal, like I just didn’t want to fit in. In junior high and high school I would have sold organs to fit in and be normal. I just never quite got the hang of it.

Now, as I get older, I realize more and more, how very few people who play the game of image well are actually what they project. I wonder if they ever get to have anything genuine. I wonder if they are any happier than me.  I sometimes think I’m luckier for failing out of the game early in life because it seems to suck the life out of people.

What do I know?