Also making it hard to talk about anything is the overwhelming sense of babbling craziness that I am now living with all the time.
All I have right now are run-on sentences of doom, like these:
- I have all this stuff at work that I can't talk about, but it's making me crazy and I don't know what I'm going to do, and what if something even worse happens, but what if nothing worse happens and nothing better happens and I am just trapped in this world of kinda-sorta misery for the rest of my life and there's no escape?
- I am really stressing out about Christmas, see, I decided to do this mostly-homemade-Christmas thing for reasons that are very reasony (money, commercialism, whatever, money) and now it is December, like not even the first of December and I don't have a whole lot of presents complete, but you know, I've spent enough in supplies that there's no turning back and I have a feeling that this isn't going to be just the Christmas of Homemade but also the Christmas of All Nighters.
- Plus, you know, Santa. Santa.
- I know that wasn't a run-on sentence, but deal with it. It wasn't technically a sentence, so there's that.
- I keep telling people to come to my house, which is fine because I like it when people come to my house, except I kinda thought it would be easier to do my entertaining all in a stretch and then I'd only have to keep the house clean which would be easier than cleaning, right? Except, no, keeping the house clean means constantly nagging my kids about every little thing, which I should probably do more of anyway, then cleaning wouldn't be such a hassle, but it is exhausting, you know, I just want to sit here and watch Austin and Ally and not go crazy because I just realized that Maren is cutting paper into tiny pieces and isn't using anything to catch them and NO, CONFETTI IS NOT FUN, MAREN.
- I wrote this book, well, kinda, if you are okay with books with no endings, because I am committed to this thing, as I've written seven-eights of it, but I just cannot figure out how you end a book. I mean, I'm really proud to have almost finished a novel, but I would be amazingly proud to have actually finished a novel and I can't figure out how.
- And yes, that means that I failed at NaNoWriMo, because I couldn't end it, I mean I could have gone back and done some of my rewrites and actually hit the required word count, but I didn't because I decided not to do rewrites until I was done with the whole thing and I'm never going to finish it because how do books end, again?
So, there you have it. I'm fine. Really. I'm just insane and freaking out about every little thing. But fine. This too shall pass. Quitcher worrying.