For about half my waking hours today, I was caught in quite a spectacular rotten mood. One that pulled down the corners of my mouth, furrowed my eyebrows, filled my head with fuzz and my mind with a desire to flip things around.
(except skateboards. If I could flip skateboards, I wouldn’t have felt half as rotten as I did)
But why, Joseph? Why the rotten mood? Who made you so mad?
It’s not a question of who, but what. What made me irritated was a little booklet that, no matters how many times I edit it, just refuses to stay edited. What agitated me were some negative comments brought over from the previous Sunday. What annoyed me was that I wouldn’t get home until past 10. What infuriated me was that I still don’t understand what makes *good* writing good.
It was a certain kind of sour mood that made me want to leave work early, go home, and hide under my blankets with a funny book. Maybe Mr. Gaiman’s Anansi Boys. But remembering that I’ve already paid for a full day’s worth of parking in advance, it seemed like an awful waste to let all those extra hours go. So I stayed.
(also, and mostly, because I had to clock in the hours in order to qualify for my pay. Boo hoo)
I’m not sure if this makes me bipolar, or at least a minor form of it. I swing between rotten and sunny moods over small things. Someone more poetic might say that small rudders move big ships, or something to that effect. And for me, it isn’t the gales of trouble or high waves of life that gets me. It’s the little things that gets entangled in the rudders that really sets me off one way or another.
I thought that I’ll feel better after reading some. Unfortunately for me, The Writer’s Tower theme for May is “The Evil Within”, and so all I had to read were tales of darkness and revenge. I decided to read some recommended articles from Facebook, and apparently the hottest thing in the news is the 9/11 museum that had been built at ground zero. Reading a Buzzfeed writer’s firsthand experience there did nothing to alleviate my mood.
Also, work was trickling in at a painfully slow rate, so there was nothing to distract myself with.
Decided to make some fruit tea, which I received as a gift yesterday. Tea smelled lovely, didn’t taste quite as much. It tasted like the promises of politicians: tantalizing at first, but ultimately disappointing. I finished it anyway, because tea is tea is tea.
(also, and mostly, because there were only 30 sachets, and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I wasted proper tea. 29 to go…)
My options whittled away with time and activity. Social media wasn’t doing it for me. Image sites were a temporary distraction. All the reading I did had done me no good. Eventually, there was only one thing I had not done yet.
I pulled the notepad in front of me, and I began to write.
And for a little while, the rotten mood left me.