I'm brainfried. That's really the only reason I can come up with as to why I can't think of anything to write about today. Oh, sure, I could do a cat blog or pimp my MamaPop articles more, but really, self? Are you that much of a desperate whore?
Don't answer that.
I'm dealing with some drama right now, and I don't mean the kind you buy tickets for. (if you're going to do that, and you're in the NYC area, you should go see Glee Club, which you can watch a preview of here.) I've been, in the words of my dear girl Amber, in a depressive spiral for the last week or so, and I find myself censoring myself more times than not, because seriously, who wants to listen to the depressed woman bitch about being depressed? It's repetitious and tedious, at best.
But that's what this blog is about, isn't it? Not the repetitious and tedious part, smartasses, the bitching part. For every Bachelor recap you get, there's an entry about how I can't leave the house without more or less becoming another personality. Yin and yang, funny and serious. It's the nature of my brain, and if anyone can tell me why I feel this deep need to constantly apologize for it, I'd love to hear it.
My therapist told me a few weeks ago that she is fairly amazed that my personality didn't actually split somewhere along the line, that the Danielle part and the Miss Banshee part didn't separate entirely.
Well. that's certainly comforting to hear.
"Pretty amazing you didn't become Sybil, dude. Sure you're not losing time or waking up in strange places?"
Well not yet, thanks for inserting that little image into my head, it wasn't crowded enough as it was.
I have no idea where I'm going with this, other than I felt I needed to write today, dammit, even though I was up all night writing this little piece of literary masterwork. Perhaps it's my own self-doubt as a writer that forces my hand sometimes. Perhaps it's because I'm talking constantly with other writers, who do neato things like write plays or fiction or poetry or all the things I can't do. Perhaps I'm just bored and depressed and feel like I need to be heard, dammit.
Perhaps I'm just exceptionally lonely today.
Okay, that's enough for now, I think I've made my point.
"What in the name of God's underbritches is your point, please?"
My point is that sometimes a writer just needs to write, and sometimes she is weird enough to put it up on the internet, and sometimes her ego is just strong enough to think someone might want to read it. That's my point. I'm going to take a nap now, because this entry is getting incredibly strange, even for me, and I have no zinger to end it with, so I will end it with a period, which is the traditional way to end a piece of writing.