Unsorted sorts

I hate that nagging feeling. It's been a few days. Come on. Write.

The truth is that I don't want to write. I don't want to process. I don't want to feel.

I want to be locked away to be alone until this thing passes. Heck, the way I've been acting, I fully deserve to be locked away. Throw away the key, even. Leave me there until I can be human, or something like it.

To top things off, work is complicated socially, and Elsie and I are forced to spend the week at Mom's because my car needs to be repaired, thus making me carless and dependent on Mom for getting to work. My computer is on the tiniest little too-low end table, and my back side is on a rickety old dining room chair from perhaps 1985. Elsie is handling things far better than I am.

It's probably in your best interest to stay far, far away from me right now. If you choose not to heed my advice, don't say I didn't warn you.