What? I was all ready to write an angry, frustrated blog post of doom. It had spectacular images of steel vice grips crushing my rib cage and a quarter-life crises creature that pooped out of its mouth. I peered into my future and saw an unsettling path at the end of which I subsisted off a diet of black coffee and cigarettes while using my pedantic aspirations of becoming a writer as an excuse for my raging alcoholism because I crawled deep into a bottle of scotch every night but never actually produced anything.
I The post was not ok.
It was a blog post the preachers of the Great Awakening would appreciate, filled with fire and rage and sheer unadulterated panic. The kind of panic that collapses entire generations and ravages cities once believed to withstand the smiting of Thor’s hammer. Damn, it was a good blog post. I mean, I was a certifiable mess and it showed.
But then…I talked to my sister. I talked to Gina. I talked to Neil. I taught a class full of first graders about the First Christmas.
And then I felt better. I mean, this wasn’t the “most improved” award of morale boosting, where yeah, you’re better than you used to be, but you still suck, kid. I felt good. Pressure gone. Outlook bright.
What the hell happened?
What changed? I was feeling incredibly nervous and apprehensive about my future as well as frustrated and trapped in my present. Two hours later and I just don’t.
I’m think I’m going to stop worrying about it and just hope it lasts.