Everything's annoying me. Every morning, I get up after having gotten 6 or 8 hours sleep, and I'm exhausted. Every night, I toss and turn because the room is too hot or too cold, or the sheets are too itchy, or I'm sure there's a scorpion or a spider crawling about in the bedclothes with me. Every day, I try to write some, and I end up ripping the work apart, or closing without saving because it's all a pile of crap. I'm...irritated. I feel like that noise the washing machine makes when I put too many towels in.

It isn't anything specific, but a bunch of things. I swallowed a whole assortment of garbage recently, and I haven't yet bothered to deal with any of it. I know I shouldn't let things clog up like that, but I do it anyway. And I know what happens next: Some teeny little thing is going to happen, and I'm going to overreact because I'm already ticked off about all these other, bigger things.

It takes me a long time to mull stuff over. So, while I'm carefully examining how I could, maybe, might, probably, and — finally! — do feel about this one thing, a few days could pass! I just don't like to make mistakes, be embarrassed, or caught off-guard, is all. Very bad about that. Too, the more strongly I might feel about whatever it is, the longer it takes me to figure out just what that feeling is. Meantime, all this other stuff has happened, and I've tossed it in my bag of garbage. My In-Box.

Saturday night's when I started going clogged. Manly Man, during a heated debate he started at 3 o'clock in the morning, said, "We really need to use a more appropriate term for what it is you do." He was talking about my sitting at the computer from 9-12 most every night, writing my novel. "We really shouldn't call it ‘work' because that implies being paid."

I'm still chewing on that one.