Thursday again

It is Thursday again. And you know what my favorite thing is about Thursdays? It's my one day off to myself. I don't work anywhere and no one is here. I have the house to myself not sharing it with my man, work or anything else. It's mine. It's my day. It's my writing day. Although I write everyday, this day is the one where I can set up my bedroom and hunker in for the long uninterrupted write. I can nap, read, pop out to visit with a friend or neighbor, garden, watch a movie. I kind of leave it up to whatever the hell I feel like doing. It's all mine.

Last night I took some time off work and went to a "Ladies Night" out past Ronald. It was a potluck and clothing exchange. I really wanted to go and I did. But just an hour in, I was overwhelmed by talk. I don't know if I can explain this but there was so much talking it irritated me. It's like when your hair is in your face, eyes and mouth irritating the shit out of you and you just want to scream but settle for putting your hair in a pony tail. Which relieves it but doesn't wipe the irritation from your mind. Do you get what I mean?

There was one person there that talked incessantly and mid into the evening I groaned out loud with it. So I quickly left the building and went back outside to the table that sat among pines. Night shadows and bugs and yet more chatter all of it making me itchy and longing for the solitude of home.

I was overwhelmed by conversation and stories that went on and on about shit I don't give a shit about. When I go out, I want quality conversation not goddamn endless stories told in the second person about how well she raises her kids, reveres god and lives such a pious life. The one saving grace was this lovely creature sitting across the table from me who writes screenplays and mentioned the voices in her head. Now that I wanted to talk about.

Did a search for images of irritation and stunned by the amount of irritated penises and buttholes that loaded onto the screen. Who posts this shit? Gross.

And a lovely little post by one of my favorite authors that makes me feel normal or like the writer I am.

Sometimes I feel a lot of pressure to get out there and be “normal.”  Volunteer. Have dinner parties. Keep regular hours.  Wear the right clothes.  ( I really feel this pressure lately!)
And yet, what I know to be true is that writers are an odd lot.  It’s just that simple.  We’re reclusive and tend toward eccentric habits like going to bed at 7:30 pm or 5:00 am or searching madly for candy corn when it isn’t in season.  There are only two people  in the world that I will talk to on the phone for more than five minutes: my BWF (best writing friend) and my sister, and trust me, other people comment on it.  I need VAST amounts of quiet time, and get really, really, really excited when I know I will be alone in the house for three days (which is coming up this week).   I don’t really want to wear suits. I want to wear emerald green hippie dresses and bare sandals with a super long scarf from India. Barbara O'Neal.