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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.