Jumbled Head

I leave for the plane Saturday. Writing workshop awaits. So much to do, so much to do, so much to . . . Having a hard time thinking straight. Thoughts jumbled up in there include:

How I’m loving my new website design. Which isn’t my design—it’s e‘s design. And he sort of didn’t plan on designing it that way, I just said I wanted something more “noirish” and “cinematic” and was having trouble describing it in actual physical details, then saw his website and said “Could I have that?” and, well, let’s just say he was kind enough to let me steal it.

How I want chocolate.

How it occurred to me today that I rub people the wrong way. Or in some other way annoy them. But no one ever tells me how or why, so I’m left guessing.

How I have all those workshop stories to comment on and I’m really behind and I can’t do them on the plane because I plan on sleeping.

Packing: socks?

Packing: how many shirts is too many shirts for a week plus one day?

How I have to finish my outline and send it to my awesome editor, now forever known as AE.

How my outline really is almost finished, I’m just taking my time reading through it, though I don’t exactly have the time to be doing that, but you can’t rush me when I’m writing, you just can’t.

How I’ve written more of a rough draft and less of an outline, but whatever.

How I’d like to change my life irrevocably by March 31. (March 31 = the day our lease is up.)

How I want chocolate.

How e probably wants to figure out a whole new website for himself now and I probably shouldn’t have stolen his.

How I’m selfish. (Case in point: The conversation we were having when he was walking out the door and the moment in which I spread my arms wide and said, “But that could save my life!” Why my life only and not his?)

How I should dye my hair tonight but you know what maybe I’ll do it tomorrow.

How I want chocolate.

Packing: sunscreen? lotion? do we have enough soap?

How I want chocolate.

How I need more time to write. Much more time to write.

How I won’t get it. How I should not, then, turn on the TV. How I should do this thing and that thing and pack the socks and do the dishes and where’s the iron and I must do my workshop comments and I’m starving and where’s dinner and oh right I didn’t order it yet and, of course . . .

How I want chocolate, the great reoccurring theme of my life.

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