i’ve been drinking echinacea tea in hopes of stopping my cold dead in its tracks. so far it’s only succeeded in making my head feel like it’s a helium balloon attached to by body by a thin ribbon.
yes, it’s 2:30 am and i am listening to billy joel. if that doesn’t give you sufficient warning not to read on, nothing will. tea with honey is supposed to make one taste better. not that anyone will be doing any tasting of me in the near future, but i thought i should share that interesting fun fact.
i finished the biography of edna st. vincent millay tonight. it was thoroughly depressing. it’s always sad to see creative genius spoiled by drugs and vanity. i have thing with drugs, i don’t like them one bit. i’ve tried marijuana and didn’t particularily care for it. the rest of the mind-altering chemicals just didn’t appeal to me. perhaps i am nothing but a hopeless square, but i kind of like having full control of my mental faculties. i flirted with alcoholism in college, but who doesn’t?
people have told me that mind-altering chemicals unleashes their creativity. i am inclined to think that is a bunch of bunk. i look back to my drinking days and while i wrote a lot (because i was a reporter and a columnist), i only wrote when i had to. when it was required for money or grades. i write more now than i ever have before in my entire life. of course, i am still known to go on the occassional binge but those grow fewer as i get older. i guess i just don’t need it. i don’t need it to unwind, to loosen up, i don’t need it for anything. is this a sure sign of maturity?
my intentions were to write a little diatribe about having romantic potential in my life, either electronic or otherwise, but i am really not in the mood for a pity party. i’ve spent the past two days locked away with myself in the life of vincent millay and i fear that has made me dreadfully boring. i could blame it on the cold, or the wonky feeling that echinacea always seems to induce in me, but i fear i am the only one responsible. i really worry about becoming boring. it’s probably my biggest phobia, which has to tell you something. i worry more about being boring than being unloved.
no, that’s not true. i think worry about both of them equally. but i have a sneaking suspicion that someday someone’s interest in me will not dissipate. some lucky fellow will find be ever engaging even when i am at my most boring. he will find it cute that i read in bed naked and have messy hair.
in other news, i think i will go to bed and dream weird dreams about fairy-girl poets with red hair and boys who love me.