so this is what sleep feels like when you aren't getting it

Between work and insomnia, I think TMI is about to reach epic levels of wtf.

It occurs to me, belatedly, to be thankful I am a.) not part of any famous writing partnership or b.) famous at all, due to my sudden and really uncomfortable flashbacks to losing my two writing partners early on in fandom. And thankful before God and man that LJ, diaryland, and online blogging had not reached fandom yet, because I'm imagining my twenty-something year old self having access to a blogging platform, an audience, several CDs of Sarah McLachlan, and a sense of righteous wrongness. Private then, thank God.

svmadelyn is the only one I ever really talked to about it, and even then, it was weirdly complicated: I couldn't just say "there were these people I wrote with" because God knows, I don't like simple and I am not exactly the minimizing type; it was "they wrote with me and then left and I want to burn our wips that we never finished; instead I zip filed everything and pretend it never happened." Cause I'm classy like that.

I mean, there is a moment when you have to sit back and think to yourself, you really need to let this go.

( or so you'd think )

If there is a happy Beatles fic out there without foreshadowing, I think it is hidden somewhere and I will not find it until I have read another hundred fic that make me want to get really stoned and really drunk. I have to stop reading this; I'm seriously craving a joint and I really never got into that. And I only drink once a year. And they're very girly drinks, ask anyone.

I am thinking it would probably help, on a sideline, if work would back off long enough for me to breathe. I need retail therapy. Luckily, Christmas is obliging that nicely.

this is due to me being all grumpy and everything, isn't it?

....my mother and my grandmother--my mother and my grandmother--ship John Lennon and Paul McCartney. They did it back when they were watching it happen. My nephew is trying to sing We Can Work It Out and he's not getting the words but he's got the melody line down.

My mother today in a perfectly ordinary car on the way to the pharmacy sighed and talked about their meant-to-be'ness.

My life, what is this, how is this, what?

*lies down*

Two more days of work. Two more days and I am free like the wind, or at least, more free, less homicidal. When this is over, oh man there will be an entry on my rage. Oh the rage. And the entry.