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2004-03-30 - 2:14 p.m.
I was in a crappy ranting mood yesterday which was compounded by drinking coffee in the late afternoon.
It's amazing how much I have to say when I put myself under the influence of mild stimulants.
I try to be under the influence as much as possible:
Under the influence of literature, music, art, conversation.
These things are important to me.
And when they're gone _ usually for about 8 hours a day _ I get angry.
Not the useful I'm-going-to-start-a-non-profit-organization-because-I'm-angry-about-global-warming kind of anger but the irrational, mis-directed, lashing-out sort of anger that makes me think really mean things about people that I usually love.
And sometimes, especially on Mondays, the anger comes home with me and sits like a cinderblock on my chest while I'm trying to sleep.
The weight presses on my ribcage until I have to fight to roll over. Until I pick up the phone at 3 a.m. to call someone to save me.
But who do I call?
"Hi, it's Jenny. Um, did I wake you up? Sorry. Well, uh, there's this cinderblock on my chest and I can't sleep. Can you come over and help me lift if off? Maybe just hug me a little while I fall asleep? Thanks."
I never call.
I doubt my cinderblock is heavier than anyone else's.