I joke about it a lot. Madness encroaching, eating a little crazy with your cornflakes… I wonder how you tell if it is really becoming an issue. I mean, maybe this wouldn’t even be a concern if I didn’t think of myself as a writer and there weren’t that tendancy towards nutter inherant in creative types. There is something just not quite right about crawling inside your head and making up an entire world.
Because that ability to crawl inside your head and make up plots of never-ending drama allows you to crawl inside your head and make up dramatic scenarios that involve your spouse’s shaky loyalty. And because you can half-convince yourself that your plots are plausable and potentially real, your worst fears and irrational terrors take on a completely realistic tenor. And all based on what? A phone call that happened to be ending when you walked into the room.
Oh: job update.
LAC hasn’t called back. It’s been a month. I’ve got no more ability to make up what that means. I’m busy enough inventing meaning for other parts of my life.