So, I don’t know that I have anything interesting to say. I thought perhaps I’d just write a post that is a little more about me, and a little less about my writing. Of course, since I am a writer, writing will creep in here anyway. Oh look, there it is.
Let me begin my me-post, by telling you about my week. This has been a rather rough week for me. On Wednesday I stumbled out of bed with a stiff shoulder. Nothing major. Just annoying. I ignored it and went on with my day. Eventually it either went away or I forgot about it as I often do with minor aches and pains. Thursday morning the pain migrated to the center of my shoulder blades, and crept up my neck. Yikes, I thought, that isn’t good. So I popped a couple of T-3’s, (really strong Tylenol) and ignored it. By mid-afternoon, said pain was screaming for attention. “But I gave you drugs!” I said. “MORE!” said the pain. I refused. I would not give in to pain just because it spoke louder than the other voices. Eventually it grew tired of whining and it’s crying dulled to a rather pathetic whimper.
Today, the pain said, “Fuck you and your pain killer withholding bullshit, bitch.I said more and I. Mean. More.” It moved across my back up my neck and into my right shoulder, ending at a tingling sensation in my right hand. Yep. I was in trouble. I couldn’t turn my head to the right at all and only part way to the left. I couldn’t even touch my chin to my chest. It hurt. Bad. I eyed the T-3’s longingly. But then, common sense spoke up and said, “Now, Renee, did those pills silence the pain yesterday?” No, I thought, they didn’t. “Well, do you really think they’ll do it today?” No, I thought, they won’t. So I hobbled to the drug store and bought something stronger. Muscle relaxers. Ooooh, good stuff.
Muscle relaxers are why I’ve accomplished nothing today and why I’m writing a blog post about absolutely nothing. You see, I’m not really good at taking any kind of medication. Over the counter ibuprofen has been known to make me loopy. Muscle relaxers? Well, let’s just say I’m in happy pain. I’m supposed to write articles each day in order to pay the bills. My brain is on a happy trip with the muscle relaxers. A trip full of rainbows and unicorns and without any focus or intelligent thought at all.
So, here we are. You’re there eating my cookies. No, it’s okay. I’m not really into cookies while I’m high. You enjoy them. I’m sitting here, my head cocked at a strange angle because to cock it at a normal angle hurts. A lot. You’re looking at me as though you’re wondering if I’ll get to my point before the cookies run out. I might. Probably.
Okay fine, I will. A while ago a friend said to me that writers and artists were all weird. I said, “Hey! I’m a writer.” She said, “Exactly.” Of course, I frowned and said that I was slightly offended that she found me weird. I thought perhaps unique, maybe a little flakey or eccentric, but weird? No. I said to my friend who really is a dear sweet girl, “Okay, name five weird things about me. Things that other people would find weird, not just you.” Because she sometimes exaggerates. So, for all of you, here are five weird things about me. Yes, they’re true.
1. I hate feet. Your feet, my feet, his feet, her feet; all feet. Don’t touch me with yours, I won’t touch you with mine. Don’t touch mine. Ever. Never. Not even when they’re covered. People stepping on my toes sends me into that dark place in my brain where the homicidal voices live. I shudder at the thought of a foot massage. Shudder and even vomit in my mouth a little. Kurt asked me once to cut his toenails and I said, “That is a deal breaker.” Besides, I’d need a grinder to trim those bastards.
2. I’m terrified of driving. Terrified. Me behind the wheel of a car = instant panic attack. I don’t mean just a “oh no, look at me driving. eek!” I mean, full on, sweating, crying, white knuckled, shaking, blubbering mess kind of panic attack. I don’t like cars passing me, I don’t like reversing, I hate stopping, I hate everything about it. I’ve had my learner’s permit (or G1 as it’s called in Canada) more times than I care to say. Never made it to actually getting my license. I’m a terrible passenger too. One way to send me into the same sort of panic is to head out on the 401 (that’s a highway) and slip between a transport and the Wall Of Death. I’ll vomit. Promise.
3. Sometimes I yell for no reason. Okay, so here’s my take on this one. I yell. Probably far more than I should. Usually the yelling is accompanied by profanities. My top three; fuck, shit, asshole. But to me, there is a reason every time. Sometimes my reason for yelling happened before the actual yelling, but it was brewing for a long time. So what seems sudden and unprovoked to those around me who are oblivious to their idiocy, is really a rational, well reasoned outburst. And sometimes I just yell because it makes me feel better. Don’t judge me.
4. Someone can talk to me for great lengths of time and I’ll answer appropriately and nod, look them in the eye even, and make them think I’m listening, when really, I’m watching my own private show in my head. Might be my current WIP (there’s that writing again), a story I’m considering, something that happened earlier, me planning what I have to do tomorrow, etc. Suddenly I’ll realize I’ve missed an entire conversation and get this blank stare before saying, “I’m sorry. What?” Poor Kurt. Happens daily to him.
5. I PREFER to be left alone. In fact, I’d happily stay in my house, never speaking to another soul face-to-face for days. Give me coffee, cigarettes and something with which to write, a book, and I’ll get along just fine. Okay, so I’ll explain. I enjoy company. I have lots of friends. But I don’t like said friends coming over unannounced and fucking up my day. I plan each day that I have without kids to the minute. I have only so much time to accomplish writing for money, writing for me, and cleaning my house. If you show up without calling, I will snap. If you call and I don’t answer, that means I don’t want company. If you show up and I don’t answer the door, don’t take it personally, I just don’t want company. My own mother calls before she visits. Why? Because I have, on occasion, asked her to go home. Is that bad? Is that weird? I don’t know. I really get upset when someone throws a wrench into my day, my schedule, my ‘plan’.
So, according to my lovely friend, those are the top five weird things about me, that makes me a perfect artistic whackjob personality. She had a longer list, but some things are just too personal to blog about. No, I will not tell you. The muscle relaxers are wearing off and I’m losing my ability to type with my right hand again. So I’ll say good night, but I’ll give you some homework. Hey, you didn’t think those cookies were free? Silly. I want you to share five weird, or quirky things about you. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.