In My Own Head: Why NaNoWriMo Might Kill Me

I had anticipated being a complete hermit.

I thought about the work and the solitude.

I had no idea that I was yet unable to sit comfortably with my history: meaning that rehashing all this shit has been harder than I had anticipated.

Things I have contemplated over the last couple of weeks:

1. Richie. Damn. I wrote this small piece that included him, and I went fucking bonkers. Mary had never even heard of him--which goes to show how long it's been since I've really sat down and thought about everything that happened. This then led to...

2. Matthew. Yeah, I write about him all the time, but always in this kind of cautionary tale way that he is largely used as a bar to hold others to--a jumping off point for a story. I mean, I remember loving him, but before now I had forgotten what it felt like to love him.

3. Concerning these two, the big thing I wrote down was sitting on a curb in front of The Abbey in SoBe the night before I left crying and telling Matt that I had slept with my best friend. Oops. I will likely now never forget how I felt after that spilled out of my fucking mouth.

4. I wrote about how Open Letter was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Now I'm scared about the things I write down.

5. I also just realized that this wont magically be over in December--then there's NYCD to make.

Fuck. I'm in for another month of this.

At least the Psychiatrist's party was awesome, it will be the only time I go out this month.

[See you at Thieves on the first.]

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