Here’s a little known La History Fact: It takes alot to get me stressed. Like, alot.
The earth has to be damn near combustion for me to feel the pressure. People who really know me, know that I am not truly stressed until I stop complaining about it. If I still have the wherewithal to bitch about how stressed I am, I’m not really stressed out.
Usually, once I get to that point where I feel like I’m about to break, I instinctively kick into autopilot mode. I start fixing things, doing things, planning, plotting, hustling, and generally making things happen with little conversation. Sometimes after all is said and done I come back to fill you in on it. More often than not, once the waters receed at least slightly, I’m back with my usual jokes and sarcasm, most none the wiser that there was anything going on in the first place.
This is just what I do. I’m finding myself wholly uninspired to write anything as of late. (Which usually means something great is on the way.) Probably because my brain has shut down.
Not a curtain call. Just intermission.
I’m on autopilot. Be back.