I woke up this morning, circa 6.30am, hungover and with the thought, "Not good enough for a coffee shop," ringing around my head. So, I went downstairs, grabbed the orange juice carton from the fridge, and took it back to bed.Take #2. 10.30am. Managed to haul my arse as far as the porch for a cigarette. I should probably rename the blog, "Postcards from the Porch" given that I seem to spend most of my time there these days. Right now, I see myself as Tom Hanks in "Castaway". I don't own a volleyball though, so I will have to find some other inanimate object to converse with.
The house is dim and cold, and outside isn't much better, with a slow but persistent rain thunking onto the lids of the recycling bin through one window, and amplifying the sound of the passing cars through the other. There are signs of another night of angry depression everywhere: an almost-drained cocktail glass on the porch chair, presiding over a small sea of cigarette butts like a queen over pawns on a chessboard; a plate of toast crumbs on my desk; the vodka bottle, Martini Rosso bottle, and disassembled cocktail shaker strewn about the kitchen counters. That actually makes me smile, believe it or not - being a drunk on vodka martinis rather than the more stereotypical paint thinner or lighter fluid ensconced in a brown paper bag. I must be a high-maintenance lush. Good for me. At least I'm doing it in style. Shit, that reminds me. I did my grocery expedition yesterday, spent over $100, and marched all the way back home with a stuffed rucksack and 'green' bag in each hand...and forgot to buy the maraschino cherries for my martinis.
It would seem, however, that I managed to choke them down without cherries anyway.
There must have been some anxiety at some point last night too. I have the familiar 'car crash' feeling this morning - sore shoulders and gums, stiff neck and jawbone. That means I probably should have had my gumshield in whilst in bed last night but that's the trouble with GAD, it's just so bloody rude. One never gets advance warning. My GAD is like the unwanted party gatecrasher...the guest who outstays their welcome...the poo that won't flush.
Regretfully I can't go back to bed for the rest of the day, even though that's what I'd love to do. For starters, today is a 'weights' day (as opposed to a MTBing day). Sooner or later I will have to venture as far as the garage, through the miserable weather and lime green sycamore seed mush that covers the driveway. It gets worse though, much worse. This evening is the launch party of my friend's new website, to which I'm invited because I'm a writer for it. Unpaid, of course. To be paid to do what I like to do for free at home wouldn't fit the fate to which I'm destined, apparently. This means King West, high-visibility, on-form, drinks and nibbles, and that British charm people here seem to warm to so much. Oh yeah, and the people. Lots of them. Stuffed in a room somewhere. I will have to choose one of my best masks if I'm to survive the night, although I have to get out the door first. That's the other reason why bad weather sucks - it means I can't wear sunglasses. Getting sun in my eyes doesn't really bother me, but making accidental eye contact with strangers does. I hate to be looked at when I'm feeling like this. It's an auto-trigger, and has me obsessively checking my flies to make sure they're not undone, my nose for errant bogies, or my face for a ripe yellow zit that I somehow missed before leaving the house. The kind that people can't help but have their eyes drawn to even when they're talking to you. Pulsating with every heartbeat.
I'm going back to bed. I'm not ready for this day yet.
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