I have a mad case of monkey-mind today.  Usually happens when I spend time at my folks'.  I wasn't supposed to be here today; was supposed to meet some fellow struggling ABD's (All But the Dissertation) for a writing session at a cafe downtown, then head back to the sparsely furnished bachelorette salad spinner I call home.  But things got in the way: terribly dropsical ankles, for one (a complication of that toxic antibiotic I took), and tech problems (Dad's router blew an o-ring last night; needed to replace it for him).  So, basically, I woke up with ambitions I then had to bin, and have spent the subsequent hours feeling both spent and unspent.  Read next to nothing, wrote even less.  Ate stuff I shouldn't've. Griped a bit.  Stared at the wall, trying to remember what I'd been thinking 15 seconds before.  Thinking, "Damn, girl. Aren't you tired of this yet?  How much rockier do you need this bottom to be before you do something, anything, to get yourself up and out?"

 Ach.  A lot in my head today.  If I were at the seaside right now, I'd say it to the waves, let them carry it off, item by minor item.  In lieu of that:

1) To my advisor, N:  I'm sorry I've been so absent.  I know that I just need to show up at your office and you'll wave me in, eyebrow raised, as you have before; talk me out of my doubts, suggest some books. You're not the upside-down-sleeping kitten-pie-eating hag everyone says you are, more a baba yaga, and I'm a moron to forgo your knowledge.  I'm running out of chances, I know.  I'll be in touch sooner than you can say "Effing pathetic coward." Promise.

2) Booze: Wherefore this recent crush on you?  I was a hell of a lot happier when we were buddies with semi-regular meet-ups, rather than the fitful f-buddies we're become.  True, I don't call you when I'm alone, and our thing doesn't feel like a "problem" exactly.  More like a craving.  Could it be because I do, in fact, have…

3) Candida overgrowth.  It's so fucking obvious.  The abnormal fatigue, the stomach issues (I used to be able to digest anything), the joint stiffness, the cold hands and feet, the killer carb (and alcohol) cravings, the neverending sinus shit, the ear aches, the throat lurgy, the headaches, the dull skin, the overall lack of mojo…

4) My libido?  A mosquito.  Arrgghhh, this is killing me. I have a great, sexy, and uberwilling partner, and yet I still can't summon up the heat.  I try to keep him happy, but still… it's not fair…  I miss losing myself in bed.  I miss sitting at my desk all day thinking filthy thoughts knowing that satisfaction is only hours off.  I miss needing to get laid.  Sad.

5) Maybe I'd feel randier if I were in better shape….

6) Duh!  But what's this about doing a triathlon next year?  Are you not still fucked from the Levaquin? Did your ankles not fill up with water after only 45 minutes on the elliptical trainer the other day?  C'mon, a triathlon?  You do know that that's running (on pavement–which you hate), and biking (aren't you still jittery riding in traffic since seeing that guy get killed in Seattle only days after you, yourself, were nudged by a volvo?), and swimming (even though your lean muscle mass makes you sink like a stone).  Are you out of your blinking mind?

7) Training for a triathlon?!?!?!?  In the meantime, you could very well get bounced out of grad school for taking as bloody long as you have.  Write your dissertation.  Work on your novel.  Get a job.  You can't keep going on with this little money.  Your best jeans sprang a hole the other day, and you really need some new bras.  This nonmaterialism is fine, but you need dosh to live.  How much credit card debt can you amass?  And how much more do you want to borrow from mom and dad?  (Parasite)

8)  "Parasite?"  That's nice.  Freaking inner critic

9)  Inner Critic (to me): "You rang? Loser! What's this about you talking to me on Friday?  You think I'll let you get a single word in?"

10) Me (to Inner Critic): "Yes, my new therapist is going to corner you and hear what bollocks you talk.  Sure, it's New Agey. Frankly, I don't give a toss.  I am sick of you, I am sick of your same old songs, your vinegar mantras and verbal thumbscrews.  I know that hating you only makes you stronger, so I'm trying not to do that.  But I want you quiet.  I want you to pack up your shiny fancy luggage and get the hell out of my life.  I'll do whatever it takes. I'll even play act in front of a total stranger and pay $125 for the pleasure."

11) Critic: "Well, good luck.  It won't be easy.  You're more self-conscious than you know, and you're too self-analyzing to be natural anyway.  This is just another means of procrastinating. You know that, right?  What a dope you are.  A lazy, fading, word-starved, broke, whining, unproductive, desexed, derivative, unfunny, excuse-making, date-breaking, talentless, Russian-faced llllooooooooooooooozzzzaaaaahhhhhhh."

12) Me: (whimpering, turns and walks away)