Lunacy Me, Now You Don't

What a 12 hours it has been. Quick second--I need more coffee. There we go. Now, let’s see if I can blend this coffee mixture without it exploding over the kitchen for the second time. It’s been a hell of a 12 hours. The kind that you just want to laugh at because it’s ridiculousness wages a war on your senses and you can’t figure out which way is up and which way is down. I’ve always been a procrastinator. I’d say it’s a superpower of mine. I’d wait until midnight to start studying for that day’s math test and then throw a fit over the mad dash and pressure as if time was a new concept and I was the Universe’s guinea pig. I still wait until the last possible second to leave the house in order to get someplace on time, and have a talent at figuring out how to find just enough activities each morning that I don’t quite give myself enough time to get dressed and properly groomed. I’m usually eating while I drive, especially heading to evening performances. I’ve heard it ...

I’ve had a good deal of coffee, a chunk of peanut brittle, and I’ve already cleaned up dog vomit, so I’m raring and ready to go with words. Bear with me.  I’ve been stressing over what to write, and how to say it. What is going to be my big “thing”, my catch, if you will, creatively this year? What can I create that no one else is doing? Pragmatism at its finest. That’s the way our generation has been taught, nay, programmed, to think. We’re always being shoved full of delightfully sleek designs and lettering, told to hustle or we’ll fall short of our potential. For the overthinkers and overachievers of this world, the games we have to play become a maze of doubt and self-flagellation. I’ve spent the better part of my 20’s trying to figure out how to corale myself into working efficiently while still allowing organic creativity to flow and without jumping off a building in the process. I used to work myself into the fetal position on the floor, crying until my own mothe...