It's My Birthday and I'll Cry If I Want To*

This is true.

And I have nothing more to say. Honestly, I haven't felt like writing all week. I've started about three things that I think have promise to be good, but I've not been able to finish any of them. I hope this lacklustre feeling about writing goes away soon.

I think I'm more bothered about the loss-of-job situation than I've been wanting to admit. I despise rejection, and this was that, even if it was as nice and fluffy as it could have possibly been.

("We don't think you're enjoying your time here. It seems like this isn't working out. What do you think?" I think my first instincts about this job were right, and that if I didn't have rent that needed paying and other work on the horizon, I'd never have darkened the threshold. I think at least one of you really needs to learn how people deserve to be treated, and I think you'll never get much out of your employees if you can't learn to trust them and let them do the goddamned jobs they're supposed to be doing. I think I deserve(d) better. I think I've learned some important lessons. Or is that not the answer you had in mind?)

It's still a negative outcome, and I... I don't know. It's frustrating. A little depressing. And maybe now that the week's over, it's hitting me. I know PMS kicked in at some point this afternoon, and there's a smattering of little pimples all over my face that serve as an early warning to others. I'm also mad that my writing hasn't just magically become good again.

Sunday and Monday are both days for me to get writing/podcasting done. Hopefully I'll do what I have my mind set to accomplish.

Tomorrow will be a little frenetic. I could go and spend all my cash tomorrow, but I don't actually want to. I want to draw it out over the next week or so. I will look at glasses. I will look at rain-proof coats. I will probably buy the latter tomorrow, and that will be it.

I'll probably buy nice, expensive balsamic vinegar and champagne or berry vinegar and one or two good oils. I want to get back into eating salads with meats. I've been doing better, food-wise, if you ignore Tuesday until now and probably tomorrow, too. I bought a nice mustard yesterday -- cilantro and lemongrass. I'm even contemplating making my own mustard now that I've found a recipe. I need to concoct a good recipe. I'm thinking of a bourbon or beer-based one. If I can make it happen well, then I know what folks will get with Christmas gifts. Hmmm! A project. But with some nice mustards, oils, and vinegars, salads don't need to be the yawns-on-a-plate they so often tend to be, and maybe I'll be a little more stoked to experiment.

Whatever. Anything to keep my mind off the fact that, creatively, I'm in a sinkhole right now. It feels wrong. No matter how much of my life is right these days, that I can't write what I want to write (and, worse, have no ideas) makes me feel empty, null, and void. This is no way for a birthday girl to be feeling. [Reminds me of a stupid thing William Shatner once said in a space doc I saw: "Black holes, by their very nature, are difficult to spot."]

Yet, still, it feels like it's going to be an important weekend in more ways than one. Hmm. See what goes down.

*But there's no way in hell I want to cry. I've had a mostly great week, and I've had good times with a number of valued people in my life, too. And some cash to spend after the dryest spell of my life. Things are looking up. I just can't write to save my life. But I will. When, though? Gah!