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BY ro

10/01 Direct Link
About the time I found myself laying in bed, watching cat .gifs with a resting heart rate north of 100, I decided perhaps I should let go and let god, or at least maybe go get this checked out by my physician.

At 35, I can't say I'm particularly in cardiac disease territory, but in my line of work, I have to concede I'm not particularly not in it, either.

But you see, that's not what really concerned me. I was afraid that this was all stress related, where, at 35 I can't say I'm particularly good at stress management.
10/02 Direct Link
She hooks me up to a holter monitor, which is like a 24 hour EKG. I am to go about my duties of daily life, noting when I felt symptomatic. I take slight glee in the fact that one entry will surely be "laying in bed, watching cat .gifs".

I'm extremely comforted by the fact that every beat is being recorded, every electrical impulse. It doesn't change how I feel physically, but mentally I'm assured that when I die in my sleep, we will at least have it on the record, and it most certainly won't be because I'm crazy.
10/03 Direct Link
RON HOWARD (voice over): But she was crazy.

PHYSICIAN: Your holter monitor was fine.

[later in the day]

CUT TO: RUNNING SHOWER, RO silently crying, wearing jean shorts.

RON HOWARD (voice over): On the next Arrested Development, Ro quits her job to start work at the Banana Stand, but gets pulled back into the business when Gob and Lucille 2 remind her she has real bills that need to be paid, only to find that George Michael has found her beta blockers, and is now a successful physician.

And Tobias joins the Blue Man Group.

[OUTTRO MUSIC: Jaunty ukulele tune]
10/04 Direct Link
I look at this batch (entry?) with some level of regret, the regret of cat who has ambitiously climbed a tree only to discover it doesn't have the ability to extricated itself gracefully. The regret of a part- (no-) time writer who cannot even come up with appropriate metaphor for the how badly she doesn't want to continue.

Listen, y'all. I'm tired. (Who isn't?) All these thoughts I had as a younger person--these amazing thoughts that must simply be written down--are not there anymore (were ever there?), in its place only daily self indulgent bitching and moaning.
10/05 Direct Link
Bear with me folks. I'm very behind on my entries, and I have about seven more before I can cash out October. I'm running out of steam, and ideas, and out of time, and with nearly half done I can't let this batch be for naught. So, forewarning, select days will have nothing but repeated words. Here goes. You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You
10/06 Direct Link
Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't Can't
10/07 Direct Link
Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always Always
10/08 Direct Link
Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get Get
10/09 Direct Link
I may be working through the stages of grief when it comes to writing. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Grief. Acceptance.

Right now I'm at Anger. GUESS WHAT, website mods! I'm not adhering to the 100 word rules! Sometimes it's 102! Sometimes it's 98! What are you going to do? Delete my awesome works? I also write well beyond the month, and surely don't write daily!

Huh? What's that? I'm violating the Terms of Service? Guess what, I also didn't read those. But do you know what I did read? "Comming Soon", every day I logged on since 2013.
10/10 Direct Link
Bargaining

Dear Website Mods,

Apologies for the previous entry. You see, I haven't written in a very long time, and I'm displacing my anger toward you so that I do not have to face my own writerly short-comings.

If you could just put in a good word with the Muses, I would appreciate it. I fully intend on paying you back; excellent, timely, 100word-even entries will be forthcoming.

I just, you know, need that rush. Just a little hit is all I need to keep going. Just enough to pull me through the month. And maybe next.
10/11 Direct Link
Grief

WHAT HAVE I DONE? I'm just filling space. I'm just wasting everyone's time. Why do I feel the need to do this? What's wrong with me? Oh god, I'm so sorry. I just wanted to be a writer, you know? I just wanted to make believe, because there are so many cool things that I want to be, but the only way I can be them in a lifetime is to write. I'm so sorry to everyone who's witnessed me zone out whilst they talk, they didn't know that I was pretending to be an astronaut.
10/12 Direct Link
Acceptance

Welp. I guess this is my life now. I guess I'll just be a normal human 23 hours of the day with a normal human job. And the 24th hour I'll just make believe I'm many other things, writer included. I guess I'll just continue writing, for no other purpose than existential nihilism compels me to either be distracted, or write poorly/be happy anyway.

Or, you know, I could start to drink heavily again. That always seemed to be good for writing.

meow meow meow meow meow meow meow 100.
10/13 Direct Link
Sometime around this date, emboldened by a few thoroughly well-times beers, I emailed Steamed Dumpling back to state that I would, in fact, write an October batch, AND, having also been inspired by this proclamation and my desire to top it within the same email, stated that I would also--after several years of getting only as far as looking at the home page--attempt a NaNoWriMo in November ("LET'S FUCKIN' DO IT", as it were).

Additional regrettable comminiqué during the same time period included: "Let's make insane fitness goals" and the inspirational "Grab today by the pussy".
10/14 Direct Link
You see, DEAR READER, my month-long palpitations had culminated in what felt like a low level sustained heart attack, as I found myself begrudgingly back in Boston, with no real way out except through.

And when I did reach the airport, a layover at DCA, I drank the coldest, tallest beer I could order on an empty stomach.

And then another.

And by god, it was the purest, most unfettered "drunk" I have ever been. The kind of drunk where you text friends with such revelations as, "We need to drink more," or "I know the meaning of life."
10/15 Direct Link
I had to take a shuttle to the tarmac, and as we stood there going no where, a very rough looking gentleman began to complain loudly about TSA precheck. There was also a young serviceman near by, as well as an old priest. I make a mental note to myself: this is 100words gold. If I don't insert myself in this conversation, this entry won't go anywhere other than, "a priest, a servicemember, and a 'very rough looking gentleman' walk into an airport shuttle'."

"Yeah, fahkin' precheck."

He looks at me. "I don't even know what you're saying."
10/16 Direct Link
Sadly, what was a stress relieving activity has become a sad hobby. I scroll through the internet for cheap laughs from memes.

Don't know what a meme is? Congrats, you have a life outside the interwebs.

A meme is--as defined by the very thing that created it--a humorous image, video, etc. that is spread rapidly across the internet, often tweaked. It's like the internets' inside joke. Grumpy Cat. Left Shark. Ken Bone.

It's mindless, and good for a cheap chuckle. I send the freshest memes to a colleague, in a blatant attempt to out-meme him.
10/17 Direct Link
I didn't tease him too much when the battle started, as he pronounced it "me-me's" instead of "meem". Back in 2007 I had no clue what a meme was, until I went to a Meme-Con in Boston. The ticket was a hefty $80, and I went only to see Leslie Hall (described on the internet as a "satirical rap artist", but better known as "the lady in the weird gem sweaters who raps about zombies").

I get to the conference late; all seats are filled and I end up sitting on the stairs of the auditorium at MIT.
10/18 Direct Link
I hadn't figured out the logistics, as I was there merely to see the rap performance. Instead, I was watching a panel discussion, where cosplaying audience members were asking serious questions of the panel. (They were talking about these things they kept calling "memes" and all I could think of was that I was a nerd, but not this level of nerd.) There was a hushed reverence amongst people in the audience, especially toward an older, portly gentleman in a plastic helmet with blue accents. I learned years later that this internet famous man was TRON GUY.

TRON GUY, YOU GUYS.
10/19 Direct Link
I would like to pause this reverie to correct some factual errors. The year was actually 2008, and the Meme-con was actually ROFLcon. Also, I seem to be having an issue with keeping consistent verb tenses, so, um, whatever?

Now back to the retelling of an oddly specific memory.

As the lecture ended and the conference goers filed out, I see Leslie Hall in the atrium. I go up to her and gush, fan-girl-like (also a term I only recently added to my dictionary). She's very kind, and I notice her face is much younger than I expected.
10/20 Direct Link
Leslie Hall's entire persona is that of a middle-aged gem sweater wearing cat owning hilariously (intentionally) awkward (yet surprisingly competent) rapping. So when I see that she's younger than her make-up and persona--probably younger than I was--I'm taken a bit aback.

I ask her about her concert, and she tells me that her show (a set, really) is sold out, and in fact not included in the $80 ROFLcon entrance fee. I get a photo with her, and then leave the conference.

I delete the picture later because I look bloated.

Blue Light Special in the PORTRAIT STUDIO
10/21 Direct Link
So as I write these entries I'm listening to her album "Door Man's Daughter" which is whimsical and catchy, just as I remember.

Naturally, it's time to intellectually dissect why I'm drawn back to this memory and her music. A young weird creative type with joie de vivre. Like most things, I'm drawn to her because I want to be her.

I had my hands in some dude's guts today. Is it too much to ask to be able to wear sweet gem sweaters and rap about hilarious things? (I mean, I'd find my own niche, but you know what I'm getting at.)
10/22 Direct Link
Things I do want to be:

Co-star on a hilariously low budget yet successful syndicated action tv show; extra on a movie set; when elderly, be the inappropriate grandma comic relief of sophomoric comedy movie; be drawn as a background character on The Simpsons plus or minus one line catchphrase; again, when elderly, either grandmother DJ or Instagram star on fleek; gem sweater wearing internet meme rapper; unfortunate viral meme subject who is able to turn it around into moderate web stardom with philanthropy as by-product; fat and slobby tv show writer spending hours with other like-minded writers.
10/23 Direct Link
I've poured myself a glass of whiskey, and I have a fire going, the windows are open with a gentle fall evening breeze, and my legs are wrapped up in a soft blanket, and despite this idyllic setting I cannot conjure a muse to help me slog through some back entries.

I am paralyzed with inaction. I feel the clock count down the minutes to bed time, where I know it will be a brief blink before I wake and head to the Day Career, where any and all creativity has been leeched from every action and interaction.
10/24 Direct Link
I forgot about the Advent feature on this site, where you can access others' batches-in-progress for a sneak peak, or motivation. The month seems to have scored quite a few writers, but I feel somewhat justified in my sloth to realized that many who have started haven't advanced at the daily rate.

That's ok, fellow part-time writers. Every month is a crap shoot for me too, until somewhere around the 5th of the following month I decide that I can spew out a few hundred more words just to complete a batch for an imaginary prize.
10/25 Direct Link
I'm watching the World Series, drinking seltzer, and browsing memes. This is my life now. I'm tired, but it's too early for bed. I'm staring at little box on 100words wondering how in the hell I can fill all the other days' boxes. Digging deep in a dry well just kicks up the dust without shaking it off. So I type, and hope that there's a rock or something* I can lean against.

*Obscure references commence.

Meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow
10/26 Direct Link
What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What What
10/27 Direct Link
You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You
10/28 Direct Link
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10/29 Direct Link
It always makes my heart bright when I see old shows or movies that were progressive for their time. I'm spending the evening (today being November 9, not October 29) distracting myself from sadness with Netflix episodes of Xena: Warrior Princess. One episode features a trans pageant contestant that is not token and treated with dignity. One contestant is basically a war refugee. Another contestant is in the pageant not for the accolades, but so that her village will get food if she wins. I imagine the Xena writers' room to be diverse, for this sort of progressiveness doesn't come from homogeny.
10/30 Direct Link
Safe to say NaNoWriMo is going to come and go again without my attention. Self-discipline aside, I am uninspired and my mind is foggy. (Indeed, it took me a good minute to think of the word "self-discipline" when my brain was only coming up with "when you don't want to do something but you do it anyway.")

I suppose this is what it feels like to try to start that '72 Chevy in the garage, or clean out an attic. It's gross, and dirty, and you'll get asbestos.

Metaphor appropriateness is the first to go.
10/31 Direct Link
I got a local advertisement booklet in the mail today. "Pet Portraits by Meg" with sample drawings. They were okay-ish, but the level of skill was such that I immediately wondered if Meg was still school-aged. And I was sad, because all I could picture is a Young Meg at home, wondering why no one wants to let her draw their pets.

That's OK Meg, you have years ahead of you to practice, and clearly the bravado needed for success. You're not 35 and spending your evenings writing okay-ish prose, hoping that one day it will all make sense.