Last night, I had the sweetest sleep, a long marathon of a snooze, where I slipped in and out of dreams. I dreamt that I was late for swimming, slipping and sliding on the asphalt, that I was in the middle of the ocean drifting in and out of waves, the white caps swallowing me.
When I awoke, it was 10 a.m., and I'd overslept swim practice, overslept the promises of going to bed early and awaking at the crack of dawn. I'd overslept the alarm, too.
I was back in an ADD funk.
I spent all day Friday running around, playing hooky and going on an interview. Wanted: writer to come in, four days a week. No benefits, no health care, contract, writing whore.
The idea of taking the freelance plunge was depressing as I pondered the whole chicken and egg thing. On one hand, if I left behind the albatross of a job, I'd lose the perks like the shrink and my ADHD medication.
But, if I stayed, I'd sink into misery, knowing very well that this isn't me and always kicking myself for making mistakes that I simply shouldn't make. I’m still dreaming of running my own show, of no longer living under a bell jar where I am subject to criticism and complaints at work that I could do better.
I told the father that I went to see the Pope yesterday at Yankee Stadium. “Good,” he smiled, “maybe your luck will change.”
Not.
No comments yet:
