deep sulking

I don’t like near-death experiences, I’ve decided. I had one yesterday, driving south on the 101. The wind was gusting quite a bit, and my little car was a bit wobbly, but I felt like I was doing okay. Then, all of a sudden, one huge gust of wind seemed to pick my car up and set it down halfway in the lane to my left. If the driver in that lane hadn’t swerved, I wouldn’t be writing this entry.

Note to self: The new car doesn’t do well in high winds. I’ll spare you the sordid description of my consequent panic and recovery.

Yesterday was pretty much a bust, all the way around. The insomnia’s only getting worse, and I feel dangerously antisocial. The “dangerously” is because I’m at the point of avoiding friends and being almost hostile to strangers and acquaintances. Fun, no?

And sometimes, just sometimes, I don’t like how people talk to Chad. It’s like his Southern background has become the punchline to every sorry-assed classist joke to come down the pike. I’m tired of it and I want people to back off.

See how prickly I can get? It’s not fun from the inside, either, although I wouldn’t recommend getting too close. Be glad I’m getting out of town for two days; maybe I’ll return with an attitude adjustment.

And fuck the Friday Five today. It’s too perky. I feel like breaking dishes, not answering cute little questions in my o-so-trendy ‘blog.

I’ll get over it, really. I’m usually very nice; doesn’t that stand for something? Sure it does: being nice comes easy to me, but sulking is like breathing.

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