Bonfire of the Rebels

With “A Fistful of Dollars” accompanying the obsessive brain tic camped out in the back of my consciousness, I believe I can quantify myself as “Crazy Cool” this morning.

The “cool” bit I’ll leave to Mr. Eastwood and his poncho.

The “crazy” I’ll handle myself.

Despite all my best intentions of putting some hot flesh to Book Two’s bones this weekend, I’ve done little more than work myself up into a right tizzy about the whole thing.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I can handle a tizzy, been handling the suckers all my life. However, most tizzies of the literary ilk have some basis in fact, i.e. character rebellion, storyline stump or, my least favorite, author ineptitude (when said-author has lost the ability to string two sentences together, aka writer’s block *shivers*).

What is plaguing me this weekend, though, is just plain screwed up brain chemistry.

I’ve got an appointment with a new doctor on Wednesday and while I view this as a HUGE step forward in battling the lingering panic embedded so deep (so stupidly) in my life, certain rebel parts of my brain (OCD!… OCD!… OCD!…) disagree on this strategy and have set up camp in my brainstem.

These little OCD buggers are driving me and my logic / rationality / sanity to absolute distraction. I’m not so much as worrying about the appointment as I’m thinking CONSTANTLY about it.

Like every second.

And the occasional half-second.

I can’t concentrate on a darn thing and it is so beyond aggravating that there simply aren’t words for it.

And since there aren’t any words for it, I’ll just say:

Until tomorrow…

Chloe