Dots

I guess I should keep blogging since someone still has my blog at the top of a very short list on the side bar of her's. And I keep reminding myself that I used to be a writer and that Ira Glass said you just have to power through the drudgery of creating a body of work and so it follows that I should just ignore how shitty my writing has gotten lately, maybe.

I guess I'm still an okay writer since I edited that last sentence to have more effective adjectives and nouns, and I've got a twitch in the corners of my mouth about using blog three times in the first sentence.

Blog, blog, blog.

Life's gotten weird the last few months and I've stopped most things I enjoy doing for so long that I've kind of forgotten what those things are, and subsequently who the person was that enjoyed doing those things. According to my new life as a squatter in Alexandria, Virginia, I enjoy playing turn-based strategy games, cooking (the bastion of sanity and identity grounding pre-move me and post-move me), and neurotically documenting hygiene and mood control efforts on a tiny calendar with a code of colored dots.

Did you brush your teeth twice? Dot.
Did you start your period? Dot.
Did you take your (possibly fake helpful, possibly placebo-helpful) homeopathic drugs to keep you (at least thinking you're) sane(ish)? Dot.
Did you take a bath (also mood-altering)? Double dot. (Single dot for shower, less helpful in terms of keeping my muscles from controlling my ability to take criticism).

Things that I supposedly do not like anymore: sunlight, telephonic contact with friends, achievement.

The dots are the only thing telling me anything about myself anymore that I trust. Indisputable, factual records. How can I trust anything else, when I constantly hear conflicting reports about my level of skill, who I truly am, what I can achieve and what I'm worth. My liberal arts degrees have granted me skills and intellectual prowess that are competitive with educations from fancier colleges that cost far more, says my state school, but why do I feel like my brain is at least three years spoiled? What am I really good at? What can I securely put a dot next to to remind myself of what I am and what I've achieved?