I haven't been writing.

Lack of writing leads to physical pain in my body.

My throat gets dry and scratchy with unexpressed speeches. My upper back gets sore, non-utterances building up in my chest cavity. My stomach aches, my skin breaks out, I get irritable, I'm tired all the time, I gain weight. It's a fucking nightmare.

And why am I not writing? Because I'm tired, I'm busy, my throat hurts, my skin is breaking out, I have a stomach ache, wha wha wha. Catch-22.

My boyfriend asked me yesterday if it is possible to become stupider. I said, "Yes, and it is happening to MEEEEEEEE!"

Before my boyfriend "happened" I didn't have cable television, I read more books, I spent more time with my band, I went hiking and did pilates.

Before my stint in the sex industry turned into a "real job" I used to wander in and out on my own freakish schedule.

It's easy to blame anything other than myself for my shortcomings. What I'm not doing. Wow, it feels weird to whine. Kinda good, and seriously pathetic. I dig it.

Why am I not writing? Well, I work full time, I'm in this band, I'm directing this play that I wrote (back when I used to write) and I have this dog and this boyfriend and I just moved into an apartment and I'm having this viewing party for the Sierra Club tonight and I'm a Jack of All Trades and a Master of None and I need new tires for my car and I've still got another load of shit to bring over from the old house to the new apartment and I haven't unloaded my trunk from the last haul and it has been a week of lugging a trunk full of stuff around. I bet that's wasting gas. Did I mention I'm behind on homework? Got to get ready to go back to Switzerland this summer and study with Jean Baudrillard, that nostalgic old poot. God bless his cold, hard stare.

I wanted to quit my job the sex toy company the other day, so I could stay home and read and write all day. Not realistic. I've got bills! After all, money doesn't grow on trees.

I am unwilling. Unwilling to "cut down" and "focus"... I just can't do it. ADHD? Not at all. The Void! Lack! Desire's drive to explode into infinity! More! More!

I miss this. I miss the sound of my mind translated into clicks and clacks and words in front of my eyes. I miss the fearlessness and lack of editing.

I miss you. All of you.

Welcome back, Crockett.