Crickets

I don't know what the fuck is the matter with me.
I feel horrible. Nauseous. Weird. Crawling out of my skin.
Definitively out of sorts.

I've been plowing through google search after google search, in hopes of finding another blog site. Why? Because I like to leave google logged onto my business moniker, so I have quick access to my calendar and such. In order to use this one, I have to log out, and into another google account. Pain in my ass. But I flushed about an hour and a half straight down the toilet trying to find another, unsuccessfully. So whatever. The crickets out here are driving me insane and I can't get comfortable in this chair. I'm going inside.

Okay. Inside.
All comfy and situated properly at the table and I even crawled under to find the strip and plug in. But I still can't shake this awful out-of-sorts feeling of impending doom. Its cold in here.. that artificial crispness of air conditioning. Maybe its not cold, just artificial. Yeah. (I can still hear the damn crickets!)

I'm sketchy. Hyper and antsy and completely exhausted, all at the same time. Unsettled. Off kilter. Something, but I can't quite place my finger on it. On the surface all is well. Eric is sleeping soundly, a byproduct of last night's 'no sleep giggle and kiss'. Little Miss Munchkin is creeping off to bed. The dog was walked and the lizards were fed and darkened before we headed over here. In my speedy carelessness I oversalted the sauce, but that can't account for this something-something I can't break free from.

I'm bordering on tears. My hands are shaking. I can't decide if I'm excited, or terrified, or unbelievably sad. Maybe its all three? Clearly I'm in no position to make that determination. I wish Eric was feeling better. I want so badly to wake him up, for him to hold me and kiss me, to cry or to talk about everything or nothing at all. To play cards and whistle Dixie. Something.

I could run through a laundry list of complaints, trying to find a source for this blechy unexplainable feeling, and come up with nothing. Its all the same. Nothing today is different. Money is a giant throbbing vein begging to burst and send a soul-liberating aneurysm screaming for my hungrily waiting cerebral cortex. I should be so lucky. There's more money due than is coming in, and I'm at that terrifying point where I'm convinced something very bad is going to happen... but that's standard fare. Nothing new. Either something will be taken away or the money will miraculously come pouring in and I'll slip through another catastrophe by the skin of my teeth and plunge headlong into the next one. I spoke with Christopher this evening about the Swish account login and was immediately incited into yet another white-hot rage, but again, this is standard fare. Even the most simple of communications between us degrade to base arguments, but its been like that for a long while now. My last nerve wore thin with him so long ago I can't even remember. Tragedy still, it all fell apart so quickly and violently in the end, but sometimes tragedy can birth the most lovely of new beginnings, and that seems to be the way things happened. Lucky me that I never had time to mourn it really, I grieve hard and long, and nothing but the purest of self-destruction ever comes of it. Work is fine, slow but fine, and there's nothing new there either. Told you. Nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe I'm just finally losing my mind. Maybe I cracked under the pressure of everything and I never even noticed, and this is simply the aftereffects of an irrevocable fissure in my already fragile little spirit.

All this fuss over nothing. Turns out I've got nothing to say after all. Big fat surprise.
All that searching and failing in new findings, all that hustle and bustle and this burning need to say something, say everything, and I've come up dry again. No commentary on the world at large. No insights or wisdom. Just the same old ranting and raving and babbling on about things of utter unimportance. Again.

Nothing to say. Nothing to do.
The TV is stashed away in there, in the Land of my Sleeping Loves. It would be a crime against all that is peaceful and restful to barge in there and shatter the smooth silence their mutual rest has cocooned with harsh and brazen bluish lights and canned laughter. No musings online. No interests to explore. No way I'm picking up the bass and fumbling around pretending to wrench beauty out of something I've made alien in my own internal exile. Work to do, of course, but the tracking numbers I need to complete anything of value are dwnstairs in the parking lot, which might as well be in Bolivia, for all the motivation I'm mustering. Not happening.

Just me and the crickets, and I smoked the last cigarette before I started in on this diatribe of nothing in particular. I'd sleep, but I'm not even going to pretend I'd have any success at that.