Writing. Ah... sit down in front of a sheet of clean paper, or a blank computer screen that is annoying me with it's dinosaur bone quality, take a deep breath, and begin furiously putting my words out of my head and into public viewing. halfway through I have a little breakdown and curl up on the big comfy chair and cry. Why do my people like to have tragic things happen when the world is so good for me? Uh, yeah. Apparently I forget who I write about. Creatures that are on the verge of having no soul. Obviously, they don't care.
Oh, and they don't just have tragic moments where a beloved dies and leaves me crying. NOO! They have to attack me as I am walking home, already freaked out. Why? Because it is dark and I am in the head of a wimp. They think attacking me at those moments is just a barrel of fun.
To make matters worse, they kill me, too. I am happily trying not to fall in love with my Innocent as Cleodentri as I stand in the dark near woods and then wham! I am attacked (this time it is a different attack) and get killed.
And people wonder why I have a growing hatred for night time when I am by myself.
Tonight, with the best of luck, I will curl myself up by the computer, with some tissues just in case, and pound furiously on the keyboard just to see how many times I can wound a certain pain that won't stop attacking me.
This is why I avoid the doctors that deal with mental health.
I rather like this odd system...