Well, it's Tuesday and I feel like a total fuck-up. For no good reason. I had a pretty good weekend. The show B0DYH1GH played on Friday night at Fancy was literally a dream come true. I've wanted to play that party since Shane Shane started doing it. So many of our friends came, it was a nice night. I tried to do a lot of writing this weekend and only a tiny little bit happened, in a way that made me excited. I'm going to Philadelphia tomorrow afternoon to do a reading with Erin Markey and Dan Fishback at the Kelly Writers House, which I'm obviously thrilled about, and then I have another two readings before the end of the month.
But if I can get real here on my blog: I'm in a pretty horrible fucking mood. Maybe I'm chemically deficient or something, but it feels like I just can't enjoy shit. Even these opportunities, literally the type of thing I would have prayed for last month, seem overwhelming.
I need a vacation. But honestly, even taking a few minutes to think about a vacation, fantasize, seems too difficult. It occurs to me that I might actually just need to admit that I have some kind of anxiety disorder. This is the slipperiest of slopes, because then why not just get locked up, right? I feel like I'm on the verge of tears and have felt like this all day.
How disgusting that this is the feeling that Cindy Sherman professes to want to depict. Like: gross, right?
I feel personally affronted by shit that I know has nothing to do with me. I hate Tuesdays so much. At least this one's almost over.