I don't usually write where I can access the internet, but today I am. So I can take a pause in the middle of working to update you in real time as to the fact that this sucks. If I thought writing the memoir was hard, dealing with the emotional aftermath of events that happened twenty years ago, I was completely unprepared for how hard it would be to deal with the fucking emotional aftermath of shit from four months ago, an aftermath that is still not adding up.
To wit: It's excruciating. I don't think anything could make me more anxious than examining every single piece of this relationship with Samantha in detail, when all I really want is a selective lobotomy, like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I don't want to think about her. She's all I thought about for a year and a half; it's old, already. It's frustrating. It's sad. It's infuriating.
After this, I think I'm going to write a story about a flaming asteroid hitting my ex-boss in the nuts. A gal has to have some fun, you know?