The brain is terribly itchy tonight. I feel pressure. I am 30 and baby talk is on the cards. I love kids, want kids, but I want to grow more before I sacrifice so much alone time and be ready to pass on wisdom and provide kids with security.
My brain tells me that to succeed in writing I have to not sleep and carry on. This will make me feel dreadful by 6am. The Boyfriend holds me and massages my head. I chatter of my theories. I browse Amazon, Etsy and Firebox for the perfect presents for upcoming birthdays. I worry about an upcoming job interview.
I fret about my worsening headaches. I fret about my recently bereaved mother. I fret about my wish-career. I fret that I appear to have no friends I see regularly. I fret about caffeine, carbohydrates, cigarettes. I fret I am just Bridget Jones.
I breathe. This is just a rough night. This is, strangely, normal and therefore not really a problem. Just my life as it stands and I have to work hard to reign in the itchiness.
I watch Big Bang, I take the diazepam, and try not to have an original thought.
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