Zemblan Grammar

It has been cold lately–cold enough that the Zemblan weather authorities keep mentioning “flurries,” but I certainly haven’t seen any flurries. Not snow flurries, anyway. Maybe they meant some other kind? At any rate, flurries or no flurries, it is cold. The kind of cold that has me curled up on the couch under a blanket any chance I get. It’s awfully cozy over on this couch, since the heater blows right on my toes, and I have at least one furry bundle of house pet tucked into the corner of my elbows or knees at all times. Nature’s little hot water bottles, they are. The dog is especially cute, since he sneaks his way under the blanket, then sticks his nose out just enough to grab the blanket with his teeth and pull it all the way over him. Hee.

It’s entirely too pleasant, though. You see, I have a couch problem. Lately, it has been incredibly difficult to drag myself into even a semi-vertical position, no matter what pressing items I have to take care of. If left to my own devices, I would only leave the house to fetch food and maybe wine, or for contractually obligated work-type duties. I wouldn’t even pay the bills, return my library books, take out the trash, or do the laundry–and I have to say, “wouldn’t” is, in this sentence, a bit of a whitewash. I should probably just say “don’t.”

It’s not just the cold weather, either, although I find the eternal drear of the winters here certainly doesn’t help much. It’s just that I can’t imagine anything pleasanter than curling up under a blanket and reading or watching TV, all neatly tucked in, with few thoughts of Shit. As in My Shit: Shit That Needs to be Gotten Together. That sort of Shit stresses me out. Thoughts like how the hell am I supposed to graduate and find a job? or will I ever have enough money, ever? can’t really be gotten rid of, though. They shouldn’t be. I should be thinking about That Shit, and doing something about it. I realize I will never stop freaking out about it if I never take any action.

It’s just so cozy here, though.

I have been trying lately, trying not to be such a useless lump. I have been getting up earlier on off days (and going to bed earlier, thanks to occasional visits from the Lunesta fairy, which I assume is healthier than my old regimen of wine as a soporific, but less fun); I have been spending more time on campus. It’s fucking hard, though. I don’t know. In spite of all the trying, I came home today after class and took a two hour nap, all cozy and couchular. Then of course, I felt guilty about it, but instead of returning to school to work, I stayed at home reading the internet while watching soap operas and eating soup. Still cozy; still on the couch. Still with an aching sense of dread in the pit of my stomach, because lord knows, that was time I could have spent writing.

I feel like I am living through the Fall of 1999 again, when I was applying to graduate school (which, incidentally costs approximately one arm and one leg) and flipping out about the GRE and not working on my senior thesis and being a mean, nasty, teary bitch to anyone unlucky enough to come into contact with me. One day that Fall, though, I finally got That Shit together, and sat in a bubbly bathtub with a bowl and a bottle of champagne, and I wrote the hell out of a damned thesis. Gonzo literary criticism.

I don’t think that approach will work this time, though: for one thing, I now favor stimulants over depressants, at least as far as writing is concerned. Not any particularly fun stimulants, though: just the garden variety coffee or Red Bull, which help me avoid the draw of the couch and Mrs Nappington, but, as one may imagine, are not exactly a panacea for the lurching dread that seems to be located in my ever more sensitive stomach. I need to find a way to relax about this so I can actually get it done. The stupid thing is, I already have the damned dissertation written in my head–a rather detailed map, in fact. It’s a matter of physically doing the thing.

This is entirely too dark, and I’m sure I will regret saying it all later. I shouldn’t bitch; I shouldn’t procrastinate. I am in a privileged position, what with the State of Zembla paying me to get a PhD and all. I just have the feeling that, as simple a matter as it seems to be, I can still manage to fuck it up, and that’s the sort of thought that sits dull and heavy on the chest, pinning a person down on the couch like a load of bricks, or at least a really heavy blanket.

UPDATE: I guess they were right about the flurries after all: there’s a thin blanket of snow on the ground, and the dog has already yellowed a little patch of it. I am so proud. I’m sure it’ll be gone by morning though, if the dull dripping I hear under the eaves is any indication.