Sweet Pea, aka Tiny Cat, is giving me a death glare for some reason. I don't think she likes the synthpop I've got playing. Or she's just being a cat. It's hard to tell which sometimes.
I haven't written as much as I'd like in a few weeks. Honestly, I've got a semi-voluntary writer's block right now. In the last three weeks, I've moved back home, found out I've got an essentially untreatable bone spur in my right elbow (yes, the dominant one), and experienced pain unlike anything I've ever felt thanks to a medication change that will be reversed as soon as I talk to my pain specialist. Plus, next weekend is Conestoga. I'm going to be digging my nails in the whole time just to get through it. Fortunately, I get to stay at the hotel (woo!), which will make it easier to grab a little rest now and then.
I've actually realized that, without the wasband, I've lost a major reason for my writing: a need to escape what was essentially a prison. I was well on my way to losing my mind, thanks to him, and writing kept me sane. Now that I am sane, I need to dig into myself and get my motivation back. I've got another prison, for all the good or bad it'll do me, and now it's time to write to escape myself. Getting my pain medications balanced out will help. It's hard to write when you're so dosed you slur your words, and equally hard when the act of moving your fingers to type sends shooting pains all the way to your back. I just need to find my happy medium with regards to pain, exhaustion, medication, and stories.
For now, I'm going to go dye my hair. Pain really makes you feel like shit about yourself, and I need to see something other than dark circles under my eyes when I look in my mirror. At least my hair is short again. Wasband bullied me into growing it long. Now that I have my way? I have no more than three months' worth of growth in any direction. Huzzah!
And now, as Blofeld said, "No, Ms. Ward, I expect you to dye!"