Before mercury, my blood used to fill thermometers.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Brain Storm.

This is no assumption: I know I strike a great many of those whose opinions impact me as, if not lazy, terminally steady. I give off a gleaming vibe of competency, but also a troubling little psychic bleat about being too relaxed. Something like that which is borne out of not being an anxious person, having a tough time on occasion with anxious people, and so I use myself as a weapon against generating more anxiety than needs to fill a space that could otherwise include a Klaus Nomi impression. This belies a torrential, churning hurricane of nonstopped-ness that I don't believe to be unique to me. I note it because I've been freaking out more than usual about things beyond my control, things that, three weeks ago, were of no concern to me. This getting freaked out does nothing to bring me closer to achieving my goals, so I reason, and go to strip off the anxious-pants with a few episodes of Mad Men and a sixteen hour nap, thereby perpetuating my famed relaxedness. I don't think 'balanced' looks comely on me. Neither does a carousel of self-criticisms. My mother and I got into an absurd pep talk/argument during which she pointed out that worrying was silly because nothing has ever failed to work out for me, which I told her was a major part of my anxiety: I know that is not how all things go. I'm doing much better now that I've spent my last knot of nervous energy and am looking forward to redefining the parameters of aproductivity for maybe the rest of May. I should eek along the assembly of my portfolio and do only fun things. That might make my anxiety jealous, though, and it would impress upon me to let it return. I could always become a true failure and then ambition - the frothy, rabid heart of any anxious energy I possess - would turn on its heels.

This whimsical curmudgeonry is brought to you by my spontaneous re-viewing of Public Speaking on Monday. Whereas Tina Fey's past and my own share some uncanny moments, so my life and that of Fran Lebowitz's straddles the Twilight Zone. Maybe, having never been exposed to it in such doses, I lack the digestive enzyme for empathy.

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