The blues have arrived, along with the chills and the headaches and the wide-awakes. It might be time for 5-HTP again, although I generally avoid messing with my body’s chemicals. I just don’t know what to do. Instead of irritated, I am simply morose. And tired, so very tired. If I could just get to the gym, I think I’d be able to cure the insomnia.
Someone at work told me about meeting a writer whose work I enjoy, how she was horrid and vain and dismissive in person. That made me a little sad to hear, but just furthered my resolve to make it into Squaw Valley Writers this year and meet her for myself. Three of my poems have been rejected just since Monday, which makes me so stubborn and antsy.
Everything under my skin is reshuffling.