Overheating

Blame the weather. Blame the alcohol. Blame the STY. But I did not write yesterday. So it goes.

Luckily, I am convincing myself that I am not an all-or-nothing type of person and that this doesn't bother me greatly (today is another day!!) and 30 days of writing will continue as if this incident never happened.

Here's the deal (or in other words, my excuses). It's horribly hot in New York City, 95-degree hot, where the streets are smelling like piss and the mere act of standing outside is tiring. I am sweating on a 24 hour basis. It does not help that Dan switches off the AC every night to FAN which wakes me up in unbearably warm discomfort in the middle of the night. (He is a California man and believes that when it's summer, it should feel like summer inside, even if it's a billion degrees outside). To add to my discomfort, the ugly sty is still there and wearing the glasses make everything hotter and then I can't see anything very clearly.

Monday at work I was not the least bit productive, taking all day to write something that should have taken me an hour and then reading Adam's movie script. Afterwards, I met up with my old co-worker Brooke for drinks at the lovely Campbell Apartment, but there's a problem when I drink two glasses of wine with no food on an empty stomach when I haven't drunk two glasses of wine with no food on an empty stomach since March 1. I got completely drunk.

I staggered home and made Dan order Chinese food. I propped my computer on my lap, ready to write Hemingway-style and all I see is a sea of words and I am trying to make sense of them but I am reading the same sentence over and over and then the food comes and we eat and then I go back to the computer and I feel myself feeling very tired so I shut the computer down and turn on the AC in the bedroom and go to bed.

At 3 am, I woke up in a puddle and changed the FAN to AC.

Morning arrives too soon and I feel depressed and mopey. And I remember why I don't like to drink sometimes. I don't get a physical hangover, I just get depressed. Like the high I experienced the night before must be countered with the lowest of lows. I go to the gym and today is chest and tricep and quads day--the hardest for me--and not even half way into my work out I decide, I can't do this anymore.

Don't be crazy Yvonne.

I kneel down to do another push up, my glasses dropping to the tip of my nose. Nothing happens. I just can't. I am done. I lie on the mat for ten minutes and go home to take a shower in our temperature-challenged shower (it's either sweaty or ice).

I look in the mirror and the crazy sty is looking at me and laughing. I have to force Dan to wake up and he complains it's too cold in the room and that is why he can't get out of bed. I wish I had his problem.

Man, I feel like a turd today. But I will write today. So it goes.

P.S. And yes, if you haven't figured out ("so it goes"), my first classic novel is Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut. I received many emails about my classics list, so more info to come when I cool down.

UPDATE: I just found out how much money I have to pay for taxes for first and second quarters. I have to write a check for how much??? Oy vey!! I have saved the money for this but seeing those 0's did not make me feel better.