Demoness
Um, last night was weird. I kind of freaked out which I didn't appreciate since I specifically wrote on my goals, do not spaz out about anything today. And I so did! Of course. C'est necessaire. The story is not good enough for me to even spin into a positive QuickieGirl kind of story. It basically paints me as a psychotic glutton so I'll nutshell it to say that there ended up 3/4's a frozen pizza (piping hot at that time) tossed in the garbage can at 11:00 last night.
Then, there was the serious talk therapy with the admittedly bitchy woman who lives in my head. I think I've finally found the form of my critic. Writers have all kinds of people, forces, craters falling on their heads that scare them from writing the truth in big, Arial 72 font on the world. Usually though, there's one or two they become friendly enough to name. I think I just met mine. She's this crone, with long scraggly white hair and a Nazgul looking hood and she knows things FER SHURE. She is the voice of EXPERIENCE and her protective torment is in existence to keep me from trying anything because she has seen it all before and none of it has gone well. How depressing. She feels depressing. To be so certain of the future as if she's already lived it for me and that I should be running toward the next prophesized failure in my life, being thankful that I didn't do something in the meantime that could hurt worse or be EMBARASSING! Shock! Rolled eyes.
So, the woman from the job e-mailed back. I have an interview tomorrow. I'm trying not to have a minor brain explosion. My pen exploded all over my hand which I take to be a great sign. Every hand shake is better when it's mottled, sticky and with sharp, jagged nails.
Of course, experience woman says I will be too one way or the other or not get it OR, she offers the helpful notion that I'll get it and it'll be somehow wrong, annoying, difficult.
I just don't want to think that way today.
I mean, today is a day where I bought cabbage.
