I've been really blah lately.
I don't feel good.
I don't feel good because the same old reproductive disorder (two doctors have told me it's
probably Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, but they'll diagnose it and do something about it when I get insurance) that was bothering me all summer and early fall was apparently just gearing up for now. Cramps so bad they make me vomit, make me wonder fleetingly if I maybe have appendicitis, cramps that laugh cynical little cramp laughs when I take a couple of extra-strength Tylenol and then send them right back up. I'm so anemic that I'm tired and dizzy all the time (and I woke up in a panic this morning because I saw my hand while I was still mostly asleep and came to the conclusion that I was going to lose my fingers because there was no blood left in them), but I can't sleep more than an hour or two at night before the cramps wake me up. And that's the least icky part. I've spent pretty much every day since last Thursday in a) a lot of pain and b) a sort of repulsed astonishment at how much actually fits in the horrid little meatbag wot babies come out of (though now that I think about it, duh, you can fit a
baby in there). Also my back hurts and my knees hurt and my neck hurts and the fricking palm of my hand hurts. And, for some reason, I am absolutely craving Mexican cocoa.
And I have some kind of sinus infection.
And the Safeway store-brand peppermint and chamomile tea that always helped stuff like this is all gone, with no real chance to get more. I somehow ended up with a box my sister bought when she was going to school in DC. They're an eastern grocery chain; I don't think there's a Safeway within five hundred miles of here. And it isn't even hormone-induced irrationality that makes me want
that specific one. I liked that one because it was nothing but peppermint and chamomile, and all the alternatives I've found that I can order or buy closer are peppermint and chamomile and a bunch of other crap I don't want.
None of which is really very good for getting word count done. I mean, I can't really sit down for more than twenty minutes at a time without my back cramping up. We're supposed to be around eleven thousand something by today. I'm a bit over 5500. The story I'm doing is around eleven or twelve thousand words all total right now, and it's
really tempting to, ah, forget what I wrote when. Because when I'm so sore and weepy and short-tempered and irrational that I'm pretty much staying off the Internet, it makes being so far behind extra, extra tragic.
Even though I'd pretty much decided this year that I didn't care if I made word count or not, and was all snarlish and dramatic about how much everyone and everything associated with NaNo annoyed me this year. Because woe, we aren't able to do the day-long weekend write-ins at Karen's writing loft like we did last year (because her heat is broken) and I have to write every day instead of doing seven-hour gluts of writing. I've somehow ended up in charge of organizing the write-ins for Miami County, the next county north of Dayton. I think because I'm only about twenty or thirty minutes from Troy, Miami County's big city, instead of forty or fifty. I actually just remembered I was supposed to go look at a coffeehouse in the next town south from Troy today to see if it's any better than Night Sky, the one that's great for writing except at the time I scheduled the write-in (they have a weekend buffet. At 6:00 Friday there's nowhere to park, not a single free seat, and multitudes of shrieking small children). Because when the main reason I haven't dropped out yet is that I really like the people I meet at the get-togethers,
that is a sign of a terrible, terrible time.
Even if I weren't feeling like shit, I have way too much to do. There are a couple people about whom I said "ah! For hir birthday I will finish up this thing I've been knitting very slowly/seriously meaning to knit for them since about April! I have plenty of time!" Then it turns out their birthdays are all in like, the next week and a half. I was supposed to go out to Indiana to pick up the yarn I need for one project today, but my happy organs put the kibosh on that. But that's okay, I still have three projects of mine own to finish! Also I've been picking at grad school applications (I've almost worked up the nerve to ask professor friends I haven't seen or talked to in three or four years for letters of recommendation!). While they are all intimidating piles of paper, University of Madison's is even more intimidating than University of Milwaukee's or Simmons College's by virtue of being much less friendly and due on December 15. And I guess I can't really blame my innards for the fact that I'm distracted by Team Fortress 2. I don't play, I don't even like first-person shooter games, but someone linked me to
Cuanta Vida and now I'm sort of fascinated by all the fan art and stories surrounding a game that has no plot and minimal character development.
And for being so behind, my story's going great. Anyone in the critique group here will tell you that I never get past chapter two or three of a story before some new story grabs my attention (because I didn't know where the first one went after about chapter four anyway). I'm to chapter six of this one and outlined up to chapter nine or thereabouts. I don't know
exactly what happens after that point, but I know how the story ends. My research that I have to do for this story is to read TV Tropes and to go hang around Yellow Springs and inspect a different coffeehouse there. I'd expected that I was going to be padding my word count with Charlie and Nicholas fluff--it counts if I write it in November--but I haven't had any time for them. This thing won't shut up.
But yes. Not going to finish. Barely hanging in. So tragic.
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