Five in front of seven.
I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. I keep forgetting about deadlines at work, and I’m unable to figure out why. I think I’ve hit the end of my empathy for this place, but still, I should know better than to be half-assed about it. It seems like time decided to lengthen its stride as it marches on, suddenly I’m looking down the barrel of the due dates and I don’t know when I forgot about them.
Thanksgiving is next week, and Eid is the week after. In the interim, I have way too many things to take care of and these have deadlines too.
I’m writing a twenty-minute monologue for my friend Erik to perform at an off-Broadway space at the end of December. I’m sending out a resume for a job that I would be absolutely perfect for. I will be sending out a few short plays for a contest at Speaking Ring Theater. I will audition for anything available in today’s Performink.
I have to schedule a meeting between myself, my mother’s two youngest brothers, and my girlfriend, which is so much stress that I can barely stand it now. I have to figure out what to do about Thanksgiving dinner, since it will be happening in the middle of Ramadan, and Donna’s parents eat early, so I have to either fast and miss dinner and have Donna hate me or I have to go to dinner and give my parents another reason to hate me, gee golly I love it when everybody has a potential reason to hate me. I look like a goddamned terrorist, too, so every day in post 9/11 America is a reason to hate me. I don’t support our administration, so I’m a Fifth Column lefty, and Ann Coulter thinks I should be killed as an example to other liberals to prove they can be killed too, ah, FUCK! FUCK GODDAMMIT.
Breathing. Slowly. In my head.
Every so often I hear the morning disc jockey announce the time as X in front of Y. 6:55 AM is called as “five in front of seven,” and I visualize this as if these last five minutes are defending seven o’clock from inevitability.
Back in September, a dear friend of mine, who is a Wiccan and an adept palm reader, told me that at some point in my life I will go crazy. I don’t know what kind of crazy, or what I’ll do when it happens, or even how old I’ll be when it does, but I’m starting to see my mind like an onion, and the layers are being peeled away, and when the layers are gone, what is left will be the insanity.
How many layers do I have? And how much onslaught can they take before they all fall away?
Current music: Aimee Mann, “Lost in Space”
Creative Control 