The total ended up near 70k.
I didn’t really start to lose it until the last 10 days.
I tried explaining this last night. “The book is pretentious. For real. It’s like I took out my id and threw it at the wall.”
“And, what did the Rorschach blot say?”
“That I’m Pavlov’s drunken whore.”
That stumped him for a few seconds.
“And, that I’m afraid of dying. But, you know… sex is death. I told you. Fucking pretentious.”
I didn’t know, going in, that I’d be taking things out, looking them over, and taking them apart, and piecing them back together, when maybe I should have left that toy in the box. This isn’t to say that it’s all a gloomfest. It’s really not. (I hope. What the fuck do I know? Maybe the world really does just want “erotic romance” and stories about MILFs and horny poolboys. Maybe anything beyond that is a gloomfest.) But, the process put me through the wringer.
I have a decent imagination. Or, maybe I’m just good at dissociation. I can get songs stuck in my head so thoroughly, that I hear them outside my head until I’m interrupted and realize I’m doing it. I used to be terrified of being so wrapped up in my book that I’d miss my bus stop. (Actually, that happened on BART more than once.)
I go away.
Psychologists call it “flow.”
Spending hours and hours away? Takes a toll. The weird combination of living entirely in my head, trying to chisel physical experience in word form, right out of the ether? Fucking hard. I caught a reflection of myself in a truck window yesterday, and it was jarring–falling back to Earth. Who the hell is that woman in the ponytail, and why does she look so tired?
I think I need break.
