I Do Not Like Polka Music
Previous - this entry written on February 13, 2002 at 12:10 am - Next


Woohoo... nothing like a nifty dose of paranoia combined with stomach cramps to start my day.

Must. Call. Hospital. Tomorrow.

Someday I will understand why it feels as if I'm pushing my way through jello or half-set cement every time I try to do something productive. It's frustrating - I KNOW it's myself I'm fighting here, I KNOW it's in my head, not something the world is doing, not something that should be there. All over the world people go through their lives remembering appointments, going to hospitals, cleaning their bathrooms, all that normal stuff. Why does it seem so hard?

More to the point, how do I talk myself into doing it even though it's hard?

I'm at a very confusing point (err. When am I not confused?) wherein I really want to get out of the house, away from the computer, doing something with friends, anyone, anywhere, just to not be here... but at the same time, this place feels safe, comfortable, this room is my security blanket and every time I even go upstairs I start shivering.

I've discovered that either my body temperature drops or raises depending on my mood, or my brain tricks itself into thinking said changes occur. Lately I've been noticing that I am at my coldest when I am nervous or frightened, particularly when I am in a situation where I am not sure what is expected of me and I am fairly sure that whatever it is, I can't or won't come through. For some reason, that just gives me chills. *shrugs* I don't understand it.

But then again, I don't really understand a lot of things. Grasshoppers - I really don't understand those, either the candy or the bug, both are weird... and why the hell would you name a candy after a bug like that? Ick. Creepy.

Talking somewhat with the Creature and with Derumi... not really any serious conversation at the moment. And also with Deb, who just shared this:

Southern Belle at a ball: Where are y'all from?
Nose-in-the-air Snob: We are from a place where we are schooled not to end our sentences in a preposition.
Southern Belle: So, where are y'all from. . . . . bitch?

*muchly amused Jax*

Gerble. I want to have a serious conversation, I do, but damned if I know who or why or what about. *shrugs* Maybe I should go see if OHP pays for shrinks... I know that there's a mental health plan of some sort. Maybe just having a psychiatrist or psychologist or something to talk to would help. It seems like as good a place to start as any. And hey, it's certainly better than some places, yes?

I am swearing off Skittles, as they seem to do horrible things to my insides. No more Skittles for Jax - which is unfortunate since they are still my favorites of the fruit-candies, although I'd rather a bag of mixed jelly beans any day. More flavors.

*blinks, thinking for a while* Photoshop. Lust. This is not a sane and useful combination. Add in a lack-of-caffeine headache, a desperate craving for non-Crucible conversation, and the sudden urge to listen to polka music (NO, I do NOT know where it came from but I want to hear polka music, this is really disturbing me)... yeah. Leaves me a bit confused.

*shrugs* Ehh. As I keep saying, I'll work through this. Somehow.

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