smothered hope

I was having such a damned time of it last night, feeling the inclination to get things done yet having no success at any of them. It was frustrating, infuriating, even. There is still an OpenOffice document open on my desktop with three sentences in it. I couldn't seem to get past it. I started reading submissions for Black Heart, but they all seemed to irritate me, for some unknown reason. I tried cleaning the office, in the hopes that some housework would give me the exercise and subsequent endorphin boost I needed to feel motivated for my work. When that nearly drove me to tears, I reached for the bag of illicit herbal medication in my freezer and proceeded to smoke a joint much bigger than I ought to have.

I fell asleep in the shower. There is a reason I do not draw baths when I'm drunk or high. I can get as fucked up as I like, and I'm not one to do it very often, but I'm glad to say that I have enough sense, even in that state, to take precautions against drowning. Waking up to icy water in the face is a risk I'll simply have to live with.

Of course, the devil weed has a reputation for making those who smoke it feel creative, enough so at times to convince the subjects of their own brilliance. In other words, I fell asleep after scribbling a few inspired pages in my notebook. I have yet to re-read them; I only pray they are somewhat coherent. Always the cautious one, I brought the notebook to bed with me, so at least I didn't wake up this morning with bad poetry blurred backwards on my cheek at the kitchen table.

I did, however, lock the bedroom door before retiring to bed with my thoughts. It's a habit I've developped since the cats figured out how to ram the bedroom door open. (It sounds cute, but is not always fun to have five cats jumping on your head in the morning, demanding food. Especially when your bedmate is allergic to cat dander.) Poor Steve had to get a ladder, and (bless the unfinished carpentry) climb over the door in order to let himself in. I, throughout all of this, managed to sleep like a log.

This morning we decided to head out to a place on Mont-Royal for breakfast which was mostly populated by middle-aged French-Canadians who all seemed to believe they were still twenty-something rock-stars. Interesting, to say the least. I made a few mental notes on what not to wear after the age of forty, or at least ways to wear such things without looking pathetic. A quick shopping trip proved the fact that I cannot be trusted at American Apparel with any type of cash or card, so I walked out with a miniskirt. I justified this by saying that I didn't have a black miniskirt, and this one came with shorts built in under it, so it was like getting two pieces of clothing for the price of one. What a bargain!

I am currently ditching a dinner I was kindly invited to by a friend-of-a-friend, simply because I'm a lazy bitch who would turn up home made Indian food for the comforts of home and not having to interact socially with a bunch of unknown party guests. I may or may not hook up with Ella for beers or something later, given her desire to leave the house again and her financial situation. It may well become a sweet, quiet evening with the manfriend.

And now, to make some plans. (Insert suspiciously evil-sounding laughter here.)

back | forth

listening:
reading:
ingesting:
(see entries before 20.11.05)

previously on Smothered Hope:

unreal - 20.05.08
in which our narrator kinda just babbles on a bit - 15.05.08
drank several margaritas last night. they were great. - 04.05.08
spacey - 29.04.08
i will most definitely regret posting this in public - 28.04.08