Devils and Hens

I must have woken up on the wrong side of the bed, because I’m feeling incredibly irritable. Something happened between getting up and having breakfast, and I’m trying to work out what it might have been. Spent a delicious half an hour after waking just curled up with B – I love him like that, all toasty and scrumptious when he’s barely awake. Ogled him when he got into his gym gear and then absentmindedly checked my e-mails, Facebook and the news. 

Funny how you can go around with an off feeling and it’s only when you pause to check where it might have come from that you get it. Well, I think it just came to me. There’s a group on Facebook that I joined, but it’s starting to do my head in a bit to be honest. Now that my writing is getting more traction, I am wondering if it might be better to head elsewhere. Never a good idea to keep anything in your life that makes you irritable! It’s silly really, because in most ways it’s pretty lovely, but I think it’s something I would have enjoyed and needed more perhaps in my early 20s. 

And I have never been a flock animal. That’s probably also part of the reason this seems to work less and less for me. That seems a little sad, because I was quite excited about it to begin with, and to be fair, the idea itself is amazing – it leaves the door open for anyone who wishes to enter. I think it might be time for me to leave though. 

Lucky my week’s been productive for Alice, because even writing this is a forced exercise today. Most of what I wrote came pouring out Wednesday and Thursday, and when I organised it all into Scrivener (OCD) I realised that I’d written over a dissertation’s work. And solid too, as I went over everything twice too. Pretty sure that very little of this week’s effort will end up on the cutting room floor. Tom had a personality change, I decided that Alice’s grandparents should be dead after all, and I made Britt that little bit meaner. All good! 

Next week I’d like to write a couple of diary entries for oohhh-whose-are-those and the whole Britt scene, which I imagine will take up a chapter of it’s own, possibly even too if I do decide that Tom flies out to join Alice. Yes, two it’ll have to be, with a diary entry wedged between. 

Unfortunately, the timer shows I’ve only been writing for 11 minutes, but this is all I can muster this morning. 

Oh shiiiiiiiiit I can’t do it! This is what a good old dose of OCD does to a poor soul like me – I now cannot cut short, because you know, that means an angel in heaven will die or an innocent child will get cancer or seven years of bad luck. No, I’m not quite as bad as that, but it’d niggle the crap out of me so I’ll just keep on brain dumping. 

So yes, irritable this morning. A little less so now that I’ve figured out why. Quite fancy a cigarette, but I’m also increasingly anxious about having smoked on and off for as long as I have and I find myself wondering what harm I might have caused to my lungs. Or, worse still, what irreversible harm I may have caused. Lucky for me, I have great genes and a mother who looks 15 years younger than she is – I reckon that by smoking, I look my age whereas if I never had I might look much younger, like my mum always has. But looks don’t really worry me, I don’t mind wrinkles and I’m pretty happy in my own skin. 

It’s the inside I’m worried about, once in a while, when I experience a bit of smoke related anxiety. What could be worse than not being able to breathe? The most basic function for surviving, living! 

The most ridiculous thing is that it’s actually dead easy to quit smoking. No, really, it is. It’s just that the little nicotine devil keeps you thinking you’re hooked beyond what you actually are and that its grip on you is firmer than it is. It’s a weak little fucker though, which is the good news. So when do I tell it to sod the fuck off? Today I doubt is the day (oh, check me out all I’ll-do-it-tomorrow, sorry I’m having one of those not-today days) as B and I are off to see Mother Hen. Mother Hen and I in combination means lots of wine and lots of cigarettes. And I’m in that kind of mood.

And it’s Saturday. Quitting smoking seems like a Monday thing to do. Definitely not a Saturday thing. 

Oh thank fuck for that – my 20 minutes are up and for someone who couldn’t seem to pound the words out quickly enough during the week, today’s morning pages felt like pulling teeth.

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