Roasted Carrots

It was hard to wake up this morning. The alarm was incorporated into my dreams, although I can't tell you the subject matter anymore. I could have this morning. They disappate throughout the day.

I was hurting bad enough that I considered not going to work, but I have a loyalty to my team, and I don't want to make them look bad. I want to physically show up as much as I possibly can. 

Getting to my desk this morning was a struggle, although I did manage to make it there with a Cookie Butter Cappuccino from the breakroom. With a swirl of caramel sauce on top. If nothing else, that fancy machine has helped much in motivating me to get to the office. 

When I had disposable money, I worked through this pain much better. 

I scheduled a meeting for 10 AM with a few members of my operations team. I want them to build a tool for me that tracks hours for a job. If this works out well, we'll be able to use it for other jobs and it would be a boone to our project management team. If the new kid can strut his stuff a little, that would be great.

I spelled a word incorrectly earlier and I'm a little offended that there wasn't a squiggly red line. I've been trained. 

If I could unspool my thoughts, I could have a coherent one. 

I set my cigarette down to type. 

I had a creative writing teacher in college that I really liked. I can't remember his name. Once, in class, I announced I wouldn't be there the next session because I had a court date for a weed charge. The teacher, name forgotten, kind of beamed with pride.        

That was also the class I wrote a graphic story about having to insert a tampon into a violently drunk girl. Someone else had to read it aloud. The way the class worked: we took turns reading each other's work in class. So someone had to read my crazy account of a drunk frat party night where a girl with us got so drunk, she was banging her head against the wall and had to be watched for the next several hours. It was a traumatic experience for me and it had happened at the same time the class was going on. Of course I was going to write about it.  

A part of writing that I dont always remember is editing. I have to go back through and relive it all. i don't necceasarily want to do that if the whole point is having a good old fashioned purge. 

The lack of the red squiggly line is a test of my spelling skills. 

For some reason, that brought to mind Robin Williams' 1981(?) portrayal of Popeye. 

If you want to be a writer, you have to let your thoughts spill out onto the page. That means, you need to have a lot of thoughts. Do I? People tell me I talk alot but i don't think i do. i think i sit silently a lot. that isn't to say, when i have a story to tell i don't TELL IT. I do. I can make a show. But I'm not always chattering away. I'm insulted at the notion. 

Oh, the perils of sitting on your foot. I think my whole foot thing begins and ends at me sitting on it. I am wholy responsible. But even now, with laptop in lap, I want to reposition and put my foot under myself. What is this wild compulsion? 

I am compelled to write because I want to be seen. I think my life, small as it is, is vauable. I don't have any children to carry on my name, my DNA. All I have is what I leave. I want to leave something. 

I was going to say, "no one knows about my grieving," but that's not true. My friends know my grief. There are days and nights of greiving that no one knows about, no one realizes. People don't know about the dagger to my heart when they talk about their children. It's not their fault. But I wish I wasn't so sensitive about it. I have to avoid facebook sometimes. Easter, new school year, summer fun, Christmas around the tree with toys. It all breaks my heart. 

I've found that I only write when I'm sad. Which is a shame. Because happy Lucy is a much better version. But Happy Lucy isn't sitting quietly in front of a laptop. Happy Lucy is getting her friends together to hang out. She doesn't have time for writing and reflecting. She's ready to go. 

I have a really nice set of red glasses my ex-husband and I received as a wedding gift. They've never been properly used...and they're beautiful. So I'm making an effort to use them. I should really take a picture and insert it here. 

They remind me of the red candle holders I've seen in movies on the tables of Italian restaurants. I really do enjoy touching them and looking at them. 

I am not so narcissistic that I think all of my thoughts are valuable. 

Ben would be proud that I'm drinking water. Sarah would be proud that I'm maintaining my buzz. 

I miss going to bookclub. One time, I brought roasted carrots. 

I turned on music to try to direct my thoughts and it immediately made me want to try to find company for my porch. But it's too late for just a porch visit.