Freshly written yesterday- It’s after one in the morning Saturday and I hardly feel like one of my favorite Lady Antebellum songs. Now that it’s the weekend again and I’m looking back at my last two blog posts, I keep thinking I still need to fix so many grammatical errors and passages that just don’t make sense in both. With that, I’m also contemplating whether or not I should begin to start writing and actually finish my Doctor Who-Roaring Twenties’ New Orleans fanfiction, because I’m intrigued and at the same time plagued that the story is not worthy of publishing, especially by a Yank.
All of this is going through my head while I’m considering going to bed at this moment, and I’ve just put in my freshly bought Arctic Monkeys disc, brand new and 10 bucks on sale at a new/used record store (take that, online shopping).
You could quite possibly tell by my last two entries that I’ve been sort of venting and ranting about my irrational conscious day terrors. This week was no different. To summarize, my mother was on vacation all week this week, only to be exhausted with multiple headaches from the following instances:
I had no time to eat lunch before my dentist appointment on Monday, which I pretty much starved myself for the rest of the day until dinner; said dentist must have doped me up on so much Novocain that I lost feeling in my entire mouth and the left side of my chin for at least five hours. My voice was similar to that of Chris Pine as Captain Kirk in Star Trek when Bones gave him “numb tongue” (Uhura, wath the thip Wom-oo-lin?) and Jar-Jar Binks in Star Wars: Phantom Menace after getting his hand stuck in Anakin’s pod racer jet turbine. The dentist didn’t even give me anything for my sore and outraged jaw after all those remarks of “open wider” for twenty minutes longer, so I couldn’t eat at all, wishing I could eat without a heavy “pins and needles” tongue and sleeping taste buds.
The next two days, I made so many phone calls that I worried about the house phone bill, which should have not been my concern at all. Tuesday was supposed to be my first day of work, but the front desk receptionist was just a tiny bit less than friendly and resourceful. All she told me was she had no information on if the client expected me (I was on time, 9:30 on the dot!), neither did she know anything about the person or the company who referred me to said job (“Never heard of him”). I called the recruiter twice, perhaps three times, for I’ve lost count, and he only told me he’d get back to me on the matter shortly, and immediately hung up on me.
I also had my heart set on finally replacing my MTA fare card downtown, but my mother hated driving in the city and this week’s weather had been colder than either of us expected. Talk about 35 degree weather that feels like 20 or even five degrees above nothing because of the stabbing wind chill and mile per hour winds faster than a cheetah. I’m regretting not moving to Florida with my uncle Gary for the winter; it’s perfect 70 degree sunshine and palm trees over there. The groundhog is never correct, not when your relatives are enjoying the warm tropical weather closer to the equator.
And finally, within the last twelve hours that my mother has endured an ever lingering headache, I don’t think I’ll make the weekly trip to Litmore again. After telling her about using five dollars for the fee plus the three dollar Light Rail ticket down to Hampden, I’ve basically ruled it out completely as a routine thing that I could do on Saturday afternoons due to my lack of income and the many reasons of why my mother would need to use that money.
Last week was my first trip there, after finding the castle-
And seeing the beautiful writing oasis made out of an old police department building that closed down years ago, newly refurbished-
Well, it is better than the $10 fee for writing once a day at the place, but I don’t even have a five dollar bill and three singles to do it every week. My mother can’t afford it, and until I get a real job I can’t continue to use my money either.
I’ve given up on the job I could have started this week, because I still haven’t heard any phone calls from that recruiter at all, and I’m giving up on the search to have my brain evaluated for psychiatry. I know what’s wrong with me: I need a brain transplant, but not like the Meg Cabot Airhead series where a whip-smart teenage girl’s brain gets surgically implanted in the body of a celebrity supermodel bimbo, somewhat like the Kardashians. I want a smarter, wiser person who’s more fearless than I am to willingly have their brain implanted in my head, like Frankenstein gone right.
I need a new brain. My old one is pretty much defective beyond repair. This is why I prefer Meg Cabot’s Princess Diaries stuff than read the new garbage she’s written about poor Em Watts. She isn’t even allowed to see her old family or the boy she loves? Not allowed to go back to high school or go to college? And everyone she used to know thinks she’s dead, even her parents and the high school boyfriend she never had and still wants?
It tortures me to read about how Em is forced to live, breathe, walk, and talk like a celebrity she hates anyway. It’s not funny or entertaining, just sad. Worse than Gilligan’s Island or the end of Lost, I tremble at the thought of having my soul sucked and thrown into a singer or actress I loathe the most.
(Oh God, please don’t make me go on a stage and sing “You Belong With Me” or worse, “We Are Never, Ever, Ever Getting Back Together”. If I get inches away to doing that, do not resuscitate me and let me go in peace.)
Now that I’m done spewing another tangent, I’m struggling with this issue of what to write. Do I spend more time writing about my favorite Doctor, the cute one with the bow tie who gets trapped by voodoo ghosts while Clara Oswald, battling amnesia, is stuck in 1921 New Orleans attempting to re-harness her memories and rescue her Time Lord? (Also includes a surprise appearance by another incarnation of the Doctor who helps Clara, to be determined after I watch the rest of season eight with the new Scottish lad.)
Or better yet, do I continue writing a new story idea I have in mind that also has to deal with misplaced souls, only in a “supernatural” romantic comedy sense? In this case, it’s a terminally ill wealthy socialite and actor on his deathbed, whose mishap on the day he dies involves a freak human error where his soul inhabits the body of a medical student… who is a pauper entering a dancing competition, and a WOMAN.
The best part about that story in relation to the beginning of this post is the name and premise of the story are somewhat based on a love ballad written by Alex Turner and Alan Smyth. Arctic Monkeys again, same record.
The song actually reminds me a little of my favorite local band from Baltimore; Fools and Horses almost has the same rock music style as Monkeys does, only Alex Turner and his gang are from England. My old friend from Towson University, now solo artist Matt Hutchison (met him during my music journalism phase), is a hundred percent pure United States citizen, same as his former F&H band members.
“Would You Know” from Pop Filter, live (One of the best songs they ever did)
“She’s Getting Away From Me” from their self-titled, studio performance-
At this point, I’m sort of running out of music to listen to as I write and it’s too late at night (too early in the morning) to be awake. I need sleep, but I also need to find someplace to write. Unfortunately, the public library is no longer conducive because I can easily get distracted by going through the magazines in the quiet study area and checking the stacks for books I haven’t read. (I’ve finally got my hands on Silver Linings Playbook, among a few steampunk literature stories like Cherie Priest’s Boneshaker, and I intend to read it cover to cover but as therapeutic reading, not research for my own writings.) And of course, I am very distracted whenever I sign up for the library computers to check my email or Facebook; they barely help me write, let alone give me enough time to post on this blog.
Next time, I’d really like to write about the little psychological messages I’ve seen in some episodes of Doctor Who. There are several of them in the new series, if you watch them carefully. Examples: David Tennant/ Season Four episodes “The Next Doctor” and “The Unicorn and the Wasp” for themes on dissociative fugue and possible connection to Agatha Christie’s brief disappearance in 1926, also Matt Smith and Karen Gillan from Season Five’s “Vincent and the Doctor” with theories on mental disorders and possible undiagnosed depression in painter Vincent Van Gogh. Who knew?
Sometimes talking or even writing about something just as well could get at least the writer to laugh about it. One day, we’ll all grow out of the things that we used to think made us furious or terrified like monsters under the bed. Myself included.
That’s all the irrational fears ever really are. A phobia of water or insects is the same as my fear of crossing the street, as the fear of failing your life, and all just the same as being afraid of the dark when you were a child.
I learned that Thursday night. Wish I could still see everything in that perspective in the moment. Imagine that.
Still not there. Yet.
One more week to Farpoint.
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