Crash and Burn

What is or isn't strange?  I have only just gotten home tonight after a long and emotionally varied day at the factory.  But the day began last night.  I couldn't sleep.  I haven't been able to sleep for a while due to job stress, but last night it was more acute as public anything is worrisome to me, and I was due to perform.  I did not sleep.  I thought that I did, but I would wake up and look at the clock, and it would be twelve or one or two or three.  So at three-thirty, wide awake, I decided to get up and take a Xanax.  And in about half an hour, it worked.

My eyes barely opened at seven.  I needed to be up.  Uh-oh, something said somewhere deep inside me, and I thought to get up.  Several times.  And finally, when I did, there was little time to make coffee, shower, shave, put on all my various lotions, and then to decide which costume I would want to wear.  Somehow, though, through automatic memory, I was able to mechanically complete everything in good fashion.  I even managed my tie correctly on the first go through, but then, looking at myself in the mirror and seeing some faux-version of a civic leader, I decided the tie would be forgone and I simply slipped on my newest, darkest indigo jeans, a crisp white shirt, some expensive Italian hand-made moccasins, and a drapey silk/linen blue blazer.  And I was out the door.

The Xanax will help, I told myself, for I was not really sweating.  It will wear off just enough in time for me to perform.  Though I had nothing planned, I knew that all thoughts and paradigms lay somewhere deep within the folds of my convoluted brain, and as always on such occasions, they would release what I needed in order to perform.

Or not.

Fortunately, things worked out.

And afterwards I ran several other more-or-less successful meetings.

But as the day progressed, I did not have time to eat, and it quickly got late.  The last meeting of the day began at five, and horror of horrors, I would not be finished before ten.  Xanax long worn off, no liquor to take its place, devoid of calories other than a few handfuls of M&Ms. . . . it all went wrong.

The events are simply too boring to describe as they were just a mundane crash and burn with a crazy person who works for me in a semi-supervisory role who did not do part of the job I needed done and who, upon a smallish retribution from me began to cry and wail and call for help from her closest ally. . . really, just the usual sort of disaster that will cost one of us his or her job.  It is a toss up.

But now I'm bushed.  Two whiskeys into this, I'm ready for something quick like a bag of microwave popcorn and some television.  Unexpectedly, I need to be at work early in the morning.  The shit will hit the fan (as my father used to say) as early as I get there.

That is all I have for you tonight in the few minutes I can squeeze from the day.  I don't understand anymore why I do it, but the daily post is essential.

Tonight the Prodigal Girl wrote to tell me of her movie life.  It was really an oppressive time for that.  But I have a longstanding desire to write about what she and I went through so very long ago (the end of the last century, for God's sake), though it will, in the end, probably cost me far too much.  I will have to weigh it all out and decide what I can do.

"Just tell it, boy.  Who the fuck cares about all this vague, nondescript whining?"

Indeed.