spit it out, junior.

Sometimes, like I dunno, every day since my last real blog entry, I get stuck on repeat. Too much happens and I overload and just shut down all the systems and put the overly verbose bullshit machine in neutral and try to wait things out.

This is a very bad idea. It's ignorance on my part really. I know what will happen. I have an autoimmune disease, and when I do the whole shut up lock down, lay down, hide out routine, it (for lack of a slightly less gangster term) straight trips out. I can't see and my pupils start to dilate at different times and because of all the weird scarring in my eyes, my irises start to look like ink blot tests. I look like I'm on ecstasy, and the people around me, because of my creepily shaped eyes, start to think they might be too. Then people start to get ugly and words begin to melt into them selves on the paper, as if the heat of everything I'm feeling has made literary fondue of everything I want to read. People always think I'm drunk, or high, or that I've been giving butterfly kisses to a leper.

Then, the dreams start. I am the queen of messed up dreams. Two nights ago, I had a dream that I was in an involuntary drag race with a 1965 Mustang driven by a pair of octogenarian lovebirds whose accelerator was somehow linked to mine. Everytime they sped up, I sped up. Everytime his oxygen tank fell on the floor and he slammed the brakes, my car would, with a disturbingly long lag, brake as well. All fun and grand, except for the fact that even my dreams understand the laws of physics. So, factoring in the braking lag and the weight of a my matching (but poorly repainted) STEEL deathtrap muscle car attempting to come to a dead stop from speeds that would make NASCAR widdle themselves, it was really only a matter of time before I found myself hopping out of a car mangled on the side of the road and apparently responsible for the deaths of an old couple, and, my somehow conscious real self was silently sleep raging at my dream self for being too preoccupied with glass slivers in my finger to mourn the fact that I had most definitely just killed people.

So, inevitably, when I get tired of my ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend dream spitting on me, or the gustapo wanting to execute me for drunk driving, when I wasn't even in the car, I just boycott sleeping altogether. I find a stack of books, a giant mug of coffee, and sit about two inches from the page, picking my way through the static on each page, because I'm too blind to tell the difference between a cat and a towel.

This is why I write. This is why there is bad angsty poetry in red ball point pen in random storage facilities all over the country. This is why I have a blog. This is why my laptop and I are bestest of besties (yeah, I just said that.)

This is why I'm awake until four in the morning.

I know the cause and the cure.

The point is, that I just get clogged up. I know myself very well. I know that I can sort through just about anything if I can just get my brain to shut the hell up and focus on one single idea. But sometimes I just can't, and the hardest part is breaking the silence. I'm me. I always have the advice. I'm the girl who's seen too much, who says too much, who always has the words. But sometimes, I just don't know what to say. Sometimes I end up killing old people and writing bad blogs at 4:11 AM because not saying anything is just not working and I don't believe in the needless deaths of '65 Mustangs.