Just realized I haven't had a vacation since running around a music festival in the desert with Heidi last April. Didn't have a birthday party, either. What a strange year.
I know, a lot of people feel that the life of a writer is a full-time vacation. This coming from the people who take prescriptions to NOT feel their feelings and be in their heads all day long and think about how effed up life is and why we do what we do.
Trust me, being a writer may not be full-time work in the coal-mining sense, but it is full-time anxiety. The hair-greying kind.
Last night I actually had a dream that I visited a sex shop and asked how much to have an expert go down on me. And I was stoked it was only a dollar a minute and that the lady said he was clean, so I said sure! Twenty minutes! And had the nice S & M counter lady lead me back to this creepy weird dentist type room in black leather. It did look sterile. Then I realized I had five dollars in the bank account.* So I had to sneak out, and accidentally stole some sex toy that I guess I'd slipped in my pocket. So I returned home to my house, which was also...above a sex shop.
Perhaps I need to find some free way to show a little love and appreciation to myself. Maybe a spa night. Or let that gorgeous 20-year-old at Blockbuster who worships me take me to a movie. I don't know. Something's gotta give.
*True. That's why I'm selling my pearls and baby grand piano and PD150 and Super 8 Bolex, and probably my Avengers John Byrne comic art (!). The one I cried about three years in a row at Comic-con, then finally broke down and bought last June. Contact me if you want it. It should go to a good smokefree home.