Ambien
I've been writing a lot more for work, which does not mean that my writing has improved in any fashion. It just means my very kind supervisors are paying me for garbage when I'd rather be paid for wasting time and napping. I think we all would. There's not much to do beyond sit with a lack of stimulation, and that doesn't generate very good outcomes. I suppose right now is just a moment that proves who the truly imaginative are, and I am not coming out on top. So, I'm writing more for work because we have a grant proposal to complete because despite my best efforts I can't wish capitalism away and we're all still stuck pretending work matters.
Some of it does. And some of it will again. It's probably more prudent to keep going under the premise that what you're doing right now will be sustainable in the future. That is, if you're not inventive enough to come up with something that really will be more sustainable in the future. There's probably some deeper angle of exploitation waiting to be tapped into. Grocery workers, food service and delivery can't be the only disenfranchised people a group of millionaires can take advantage of... I believe in the human spirit. We will persevere...someone will come up with that next big app that connects people who don't want to wear masks so they can party close to schools. There's probably actually something ludicrously unimportant that people think they need and will rush to get delivered that I am not thinking of- some tech bro is, though, and that's why I make the small bucks.
In other news- Collin bought a bidet. I was scared of it and I tried pressing it without actually sitting on the toilet and was promptly shot with much more water pressure than I was expecting. I then staggered out of the bathroom half-soaked to present myself and ask why this had happened to me.
I have since tried it like a normal person and have come to the conclusion that it's possible I don't know how to sit on a toilet. It doesn't seem to be the dream cleanser that I had propped it up in my head as. It seems to be just another small device that makes it clear I don't know what I'm doing at any given time. And there's something just a little more hurtful when the device pointing out your personal failures is in some way related to your butthole.
This mechanical slight not-withstanding, I am finding myself in better spirits most days. It seems I have come to terms with being held captive by the world-wide spread of a deadly disease. Of course, by "come to terms" I mean I have nearly scheduled breakdowns, so the rest of my time is spent consuming reality television or staring aimlessly trying to channel whatever super powers my cat has to generate her own entertainment. I find I get the zoomies- but I am much too large and this house is much to small for me to do much with it.
I'm not sure if I'm napping more or less. I would like to be doing anything more consistently than I am watching Real Housewives of Atlanta. I started reading a bit. Then stopped. I still color sometimes. I have been haunted by the paintings that I primed closer to my birthday when I imagined I would have the energy to complete something artistic.
But, I think it all comes back to the fact that I am now being asked to write more often for work. My mind goes blank. I start to wonder if I ever understood any words at all. Then I begin to wonder if I ever knew how to do much of anything. I spent the last two weeks putting off cooking for the most part because I was getting painfully irregular sleep. Like two hours here or there. I was going mad. The scheduled breakdowns were being supplemented by unscheduled fits of crying and pleading to be given the ability to sleep.
Luckily, this has been mostly resolved through drugs. As most of my problems are. I'm now taking Ambien that I am hoping I won't need when all of this is over. Because I did definitely have sleeping problems before this, but they were never quite so bad. I never felt so tired. Or I was eventually able to sleep naturally. There seems to be some combination now that made it too hard to cope with so little sleep. Collin suggested I stop drinking coffee and I hissed at him. I'll take the drugs.
Some of it does. And some of it will again. It's probably more prudent to keep going under the premise that what you're doing right now will be sustainable in the future. That is, if you're not inventive enough to come up with something that really will be more sustainable in the future. There's probably some deeper angle of exploitation waiting to be tapped into. Grocery workers, food service and delivery can't be the only disenfranchised people a group of millionaires can take advantage of... I believe in the human spirit. We will persevere...someone will come up with that next big app that connects people who don't want to wear masks so they can party close to schools. There's probably actually something ludicrously unimportant that people think they need and will rush to get delivered that I am not thinking of- some tech bro is, though, and that's why I make the small bucks.
In other news- Collin bought a bidet. I was scared of it and I tried pressing it without actually sitting on the toilet and was promptly shot with much more water pressure than I was expecting. I then staggered out of the bathroom half-soaked to present myself and ask why this had happened to me.
I have since tried it like a normal person and have come to the conclusion that it's possible I don't know how to sit on a toilet. It doesn't seem to be the dream cleanser that I had propped it up in my head as. It seems to be just another small device that makes it clear I don't know what I'm doing at any given time. And there's something just a little more hurtful when the device pointing out your personal failures is in some way related to your butthole.
This mechanical slight not-withstanding, I am finding myself in better spirits most days. It seems I have come to terms with being held captive by the world-wide spread of a deadly disease. Of course, by "come to terms" I mean I have nearly scheduled breakdowns, so the rest of my time is spent consuming reality television or staring aimlessly trying to channel whatever super powers my cat has to generate her own entertainment. I find I get the zoomies- but I am much too large and this house is much to small for me to do much with it.
I'm not sure if I'm napping more or less. I would like to be doing anything more consistently than I am watching Real Housewives of Atlanta. I started reading a bit. Then stopped. I still color sometimes. I have been haunted by the paintings that I primed closer to my birthday when I imagined I would have the energy to complete something artistic.
But, I think it all comes back to the fact that I am now being asked to write more often for work. My mind goes blank. I start to wonder if I ever understood any words at all. Then I begin to wonder if I ever knew how to do much of anything. I spent the last two weeks putting off cooking for the most part because I was getting painfully irregular sleep. Like two hours here or there. I was going mad. The scheduled breakdowns were being supplemented by unscheduled fits of crying and pleading to be given the ability to sleep.
Luckily, this has been mostly resolved through drugs. As most of my problems are. I'm now taking Ambien that I am hoping I won't need when all of this is over. Because I did definitely have sleeping problems before this, but they were never quite so bad. I never felt so tired. Or I was eventually able to sleep naturally. There seems to be some combination now that made it too hard to cope with so little sleep. Collin suggested I stop drinking coffee and I hissed at him. I'll take the drugs.
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