NaBloPoMo, let’s be real: I am pretty hungover right now. I am also attempting to function with something like three cumulative hours of sleep. I’m not even running on fumes at this point; I’m running on the vague, distant memory of fumes. So. I am not so much with the coherent thought at the moment, is what I’m saying.
Spent part of my afternoon in the unseasonable sunshine of The City, eating fancy sandwiches on the Yerba Buena Gardens stage with Travis and his mohawk. Conversation was both entertaining and enlightening. Boy is a rake of the finest sort, and I have missed him. A+
Weird crisis of confidence all of a sudden today. I know it’s just this cocktail of sleeplessness and hormones and, uh, actual cocktail messin’ with my brainy-bits, but I suddenly feel like I’ve got nothing much to offer, especially on the performance front. I sang in class, and it was supposed to be cathartic, but it was just weird and disconnected and mediocre. Everything’s kind of going off the rails. Saaaaaaad trombone.
Oh, whoa. Way to get to the crux of all my issues as I write this entry, tonight’s episode of Parks and Recreation. Eerie.
My family is plying me with cake, and in my weakened, delirious state, I hardly think I can resist. I throw myself on your tender mercy, baked goods. Whisk me away to sweet, diabetic oblivion.