na foine ting
Saturday, February 05, 2005
I'm not far enough into the manuscript.
I'm reasonably sure the Vicodin and Valium are messing with my head. I know, I know. How can anyone tell, with me? It's like being in a black hole and trying to figure out if it just got a little darker and quieter.
I attempted to play hockey last week, probably too soon, and stepped out in front of that little obnoxious freight train of a Russian. I'm pretty sure he brought his stick up. My neck snapped back once on impact, and forward again when I hit the ice.
Banner moment: lying there crying.
I haven't actually cried yet in a game or practice context; suppose it had to happen eventually. It wasn't the pain, although there was a lot of that.
Mostly it was just this overwhelming feeling of sheer holplessness.
Which either means I need to taper off the pain meds, wait longer and heal more before I play, get more sleep, or all three.
I need to get this stupid memoir written. Mostly at this point it's not about getting it written so I can get it published and do that career thing and quit my job and ya ya ya.
Mostly now it's get that FUCKER FINISHED so I can
WRITE SOMETHING ELSE ALREADY.
I'm debating between keeping my current job and taking a job clear over in San Ramon working for a major arson investigation firm. There is an off chance if I took this posiiton, which is administrative and pays what my current job pays (dick), that I could work my way into an arson investigator type job eventually.
It is a very, very long shot, though. And all that commute for the same bucks, I'm not sure.
Maybe I'm getting conservative in my old age.
Or maybe I'm just not impressed with the San Ramon ice rink.
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