I don’t know why — maybe there’s a full moon tonight, I got up on the proverbial “wrong” side of the bed, there’s a disturbance in the Force, or someone secretly changed my Livejournal mood to “Crankypants”
— but I’ve been feeling unusually stressed out today.
No, scratch that. Stressed out isn’t quite the right way to describe it. It’s more like the mild level of panic, like I’m sensing that an airplane engine is about to come crashing down on our house, or I’m about to get a call from a long-lost fling with news that I’m the father of mutated. angry quintuplets. I would almost say it’s like my spidey-sense is tingling, but that makes me think about Kirsten Durst, and then I start to feel the rumblings of borborygmus deep in my bowels — so I won’t.
I suppose it could stem in part from writer’s anxiety, but that’s not it, really. Today I got into not one, but two arguments on the same mailing list about stuff that really is quite inconsequential; arguments I know better to avoid. A car cut me off as I was riding my bike up to one of the cafés that I write at, and I almost took out the guy’s rear window with my lock. A screaming match nearly ensued. I never get into screaming matches. All day the cats have been keeping their distance from me, like they smell a disaster that they want nothing to do with.
I even bought a freaking ice cream cone and dropped the damn thing on the ground like I was part of some kind of Charlie Brown reality performance art piece. SIGH.
So, yeah. I’m going to turn the computer off and back away slowly. It’s time to soak in the tub, put on some early Frank Sinatra, hang out with my sweetie, and ignore the world for a bit in the hopes that it’s all just a phase, and that tomorrow will, as the cliché goes, just be another (hopefully normal) day.
