I really don't want to write right now, but it's probably the only chance I'm going to get, and writing when you don't feel like it probably builds writing character (HAH, GET IT, CHARACTER? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA), or stamina, or emotional depth, or some other shit I'm sure I'll need at some point.
It's hard to write when your emotions are raw and exhausted at the same time. All you really want to do is go to sleep, but since you're not five and guaranteed a nap (or 28 and pregnant and people FEAR not letting you take naps), and life must go the fuck on, you open up the laptop so that you have at least one less thing to add to the day's list of failures.
No, I'm not writing the list down. As fun as it would be to see my failures so vividly portrayed in black, Times New Roman across a brightly lit white background, I'm gonna pass. It will be my Mother's Day gift to myself--no permanent record.
Yes, that's right, emotional strife/turmoil/insert pretentious-ass authorial word here pays no mind to national holidays or special occasions. In fact, I imagine it favors these days. Just picture it, emotional fuck-wittery sits in its cozy chair, circling aaaaaall the special days in your life on it's calendar (mine hasn't switched to online calendars that sync with smartphones yet) in whatever color of highlighter repulses you the most (FUCK YOU, ORANGE; I HATE YOU). It will certainly drop in on other days (preferably weekends--bonus points for ones with more than two days), but those days so brightly marked, probably with a few exclamation points thrown in for good measure, those are the days where it becomes the fucking postman--Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow, nor vacation days, nor celebrations, nor rabid goddamn wolves stationed at every possible entrance to the house . . . .
And when hurricane Feelings has blown itself out, you can't go back to whatever joyous bullshit it had you evacuated from, because you're too busy stumbling through the debris of fatigue and falling asleep in that possibly contaminated puddle over there looks a hell of a lot more appealing than trying to make your way back towards the warmth and light from whence you came--which to be honest, probably got swept away in the deluge anyway. You're not the only one who had to weather the storm, so probably no one is really in a warm and fuzzy mood anymore.
BUT GODDAMMIT, YOU STILL HAVE TO DO YOUR FUCKING WRITING FOR THE DAY.
So you sit down, and just start typing, while listening to what you swear is a delighted giggle as the waters continue to recede. Don't worry, it gurgles, I'll be back . . . you crazy bitch.
One of these days I'm going to move my happy ass to Alaska and we'll see how much fucking good you can do THEN, asshole. They, uh, don't have hurricanes in Alaska, right?