All right, here's the truth: I have been colossally un-self-aware recently, and have managed to largely fuck up the holidays and my personal life. I'm quite stunned at myself. It's not often I screw up so many matters at once! I mean, one thing, yes, maybe something stupid, like how I left work exhausted a few weeks ago and crossed the train tracks on my way home oblivious to the fact that all the lights were flashing and the gates were coming down. I casually turned my head as I crossed and A GIANT WHITE LIGHT WAS BEARING DOWN ON ME. Although this worked better than a double espresso, I don't recommend it.
Having survived my own stupidity, I apparently decided that my physical well-being was not enough, I had to fuck up relationships and the health of others as well.
A very magnanimous angel is whispering that certain things aren't my fault, but I did set events in motion. And besides, what's a pity party without a mountain of guilt? Molehills, stinkaroony! I can't justify drinking massive amounts of cheap zinfandel if I don't feel awful about loads of things.
Here's another truth: One glass is enough. I'm drunk on two. I sometimes wonder how I can call myself a writer when I can't even get past two drinks. The number of dead writers who would shun me grows.
I said to B once: It would be easier if you loved a simple woman. Not one so fucked up.
He looked bewildered, like, Aren't all females crazy?
I've known a lot. Mostly, I would say we aren't. Crazy, that is. That our half of the species is gorgeously, supremely intelligent in ways that the other half just doesn't understand, but that luckily, they are willing to try to appreciate. But there are bad apples in every lot, and I think I'm one! At any rate, I'm a bad apple to myself.
I asked a friend a question about self-awareness recently. His answer was subtle and mind-blowing and divine. But not what I was looking for. Which was, I'm afraid: Do you think I'm really nuts?
Who knows. When you don't even know the question, then you are hopeless.
I don't have a set date for when I will start attempting to fix these problems. Or if I will. Right now, I'm stuck. And this is taking time out of my forty years of writing.
Okay, I'm officially ignoring myself for the rest of the evening and writing about pirates instead.