20 Minutes of Insanity: Day Two

First of all, 20 minutes of unplugged art immersion is huge fun! I have decided that 20 minutes is not enough. I need to do this every day, maybe twice a day.

I am groggy and not quite with it, being only 1/2 a cup o' bean into this day. Welcome to Barb in the Morning. It ain't pretty. I make no apologies. The hair is what it is and it stays that way until I'm ready to look in the mirror (at least 2 cups away).

I woke up with an old favorite chant in my head... dromedary, romedary, omedary, medary, edary, dary, ary, ry, y... I heard it as a very young lass. It was uttered by Liza Minelli in some old movie, the Sterile Cuckoo, I think. It's the only thing I remember from the movie. Over the years I've adopted it as my own. It's a wonderful destresser. It's also what I use to think before I speak... it's just long enough to make me reassess and decide whether or not what I'm about to say is appropriate. I have no idea why I woke up with it in my head. Perhaps I was about to open a can of whup-ass on some poor unsuspecting dream fool.

My dreams are like peanut butter. They stick. They take a while to flavor on down and digest properly. I often email in my sleep and that has gotten me in trouble. I swear I've emailed someone and then I hear from them and they say, "So, you never got back to me...." Oops. It's fucking lame to say, "Well... I sleep-emailed you."

Yes, I swear. Often. I censor myself in polite circles, but when I'm just talking, like I am now, stuff flies. It's worse when Steve is around because he's a swearer too. I'm competitive. Even in swearing. What's funny is that I get a little miffed when someone I've never met before swears in front of me. I take it personally, as in, they're acting like they already know me and know my sensibilities. So, I guess it isn't the swearing that bothers me (as if), but the lack of boundaries.

And we all need boundaries.

And I'm nearly famous (hey, I've got 68 followers on this blog) for not having boundaries.

C'est la Barb.

I'm trying not to think of the timer I have set, of time that has maybe passed, or not, this far into my post. I hear myself muttering, "Are we there yet?" Because... this isn't comfortable for me. Not at all. I can be random, and I can babble, but random babbling together makes me twitch. Are we there yet?

*sigh*

I'm wearing my fuzzy blue fleecy bathrobe. It is my blog writing uniform. I've had it for at least 10 years and it's the most comfortable thing I own. No question. It has clouds on it. My fluffy, fuzzy, warm clouded sky bathrobe.

Oy. Nine days of this. What were you thinking?! But. It's good for me, right? I mean, I'm not obsessing about how to best address some issue, or someone else's problem.

I'm an edifier, an enlightener, and an empathic soul. To not deliberately say something that might have some value to someone else is... frightening. I feel responsible when I write? That's so fucked up. I wish I didn't. I wish I could just write like I am now, not caring about how it dents another person's day. But then, I'm not truly not caring because here we are talking about it. I mean, here I am babbling about it.

This is a horrible exercise. I've never tried heavy drugs, but writing like this reminds me of the trip-talkin' tweakers I've met. I caught a bit of Intervention the other day and they were working on getting a tweaker some help. She talked so fast that I really wish they'd had subtitles. I'm a fast reader... I coulda kept up.

*ding ding ding* ... and.... "publish post"