I’m forcing myself to write just for the sake of writing. The urge to dump an expansive and profane vocabulary is strong.
This weekend, I’ve accomplished next to nothing. Most folks says you need down time like this. Good for the soul, they say…but I don’t exactly share the sentiment. There was MUCH to be done this past week, but a touch of the flu set me back a good bit. Yesterday and today were meant to get me caught up…and it just didn’t happen. No excuses, no good reason. I just spent most of the weekend with my nose in a book, at first for enjoyment, then mostly just because I wanted to say I finished a 415-page book in one day. I spent most of the weekend cranky, or getting crankier by having to hide my crankiness.
You ever find yourself just angry and prickly for no apparent reason? Of course you have; you’re a human being. Well, that’s how I felt this weekend, and it’s how I feel now. I’m tired, I’m not tired, I’m griping about my problems to an unforgiving blogosphere, all while I watch back episodes of Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown and wait for my laundry to finish drying. Trying to get over it only exacerbates my mood, as does the fact that I have to get up in a few hours for a 12-hour shift. Even the few things I did do this weekend are not enough to offer solace and comfort to my angry brain.
I am mad, and I have nothing to finger as the culprit.
I want to blame myself for not getting things done, for not having seventeen blog posts lined up so I could get more stuff done that isn’t for this blog. I want to blame my coming down off the flu, blame the couple of beers I had Friday night. I don’t know what finding a scapegoat would actually do for my agitation, though; wouldn’t change my irritation. Everything just…sucks right now, and not like in a “I’m so sad” way, but a “everything is getting on my nerves” way. Did the universe suddenly decide to annoy me? Did God say, “I shall send a spirit of irritability on Patrick for my own amusement”? What happened in the space between the ether and reality that my otherwise not-frustrated self?
The answer remains elusive, and my dryer indicates that it is time for me to fold the rest of my clothes. There’s a little relief in venting here, I will admit, but I think it’s mostly my body just checking out entirely, telling me, “Screw it, dude. Let’s go to bed.” And that’s that. The source of my irascibility will not reveal itself, nor will I discover it sitting here watching Anthony eat food that I’d much prefer to be eating over the stale popcorn I’ve been munching on for three hours now.
Until my cantankerousness settles, droogs, piss off. :)