Writer's blocked

I don't know anything right now.

Nothing is happening and everything is happening. I'm slipping into boring but spiking on not-so-boring-but-too-not-boring-to-tell-the-internet. I haven't lived any stories lately that should grace TtheD and I've lived too many story-ettes to remember them long enough to write them down.

But I do know this much:

I'm in week four of a six week binge of nightmarish work assignments. Each one is more horrific than the last. I get a day or two reprieve of not being completely slammed and then, once I'm mildly comfortable, I get slammed again. It sucks. I'm tired. I'm pissy. I'm starting to get really mean at work again.

And I know I can't drink very well anymore. I mean, when I'm DOING it, I'm fantastic. I'm so much fucking fun to be around you can't even believe it. But then the next day I'm dying slowly on the couch with no motivation to do anything but sleep and sometimes get up to go to the bathroom. It worries me because I'm not that old. Oh wait. Maybe I am.

I know I need a pedicure, bad. During one of those stories I can't really tell you about I somehow ripped my pinkie toe nail down to the quick and since I have brown polish on them right now, it looks really dumb. I know I'll get one Saturday, but I also know I want to bring my neighbor to the farmer's market because he's never been there. And that I want to get my errands done early so I don't have to deal with Beaverton in the rain. But you can only do so many things in a morning. And that sort of gets me down. Like walking around with half a pinky toe nail. Same kind of down.

I know too that right now it's 9:15 and my bed time is getting earlier and earlier. Because my get-up time is getting earlier and earlier. Because my go-to-work time is getting earlier and earlier. Because I am in the cycle of hell work-wise, and there isn't a whole lot of light at the end of this tunnel. Yet.