I’ve been saying the stupidest things lately.

Mostly to the people I love the most, which is just awful. I don’t have a very good filter in my head. The words will be half way out of my mouth before I think, “I don’t want to say that! Why would I say that! Why am I CONTINUING TO SAY THAT?”

And then I’m sniffling and wailing and nagging.

And nobody likes a sniffler. Or a wailer. Or even worse, a nagger.

And I’ve just been all three this week. For shame.

I even had a dream about it. It was highly metaphorical which just goes to show how incredibly intelligent I am—how beatifically intricate my mind works—and how very irresponsible it is to eat cookie dough right before I go to bed.

So in this dream I am driving in my car down Palmetto Park Road. The speed limit is fifty, but my car is doing eighty and my foot is heavy on the gas. I know I’m going fast. I tell myself that I should slow down, but even as I think this, I just keep going faster. I’m flailing my arms around, and the car swerves through the lanes. I keep thinking, “I’m going to get pulled over.”
And of course, in dream-world as soon as you think it—it happens.

So the cop knocks on my window and I pull it down (and at this point I now have eight limbs and am undulating around the cabin of my Toyota) and before the cop can say anything at all I throw one hand up. I say, “I HAVE AN EAR INFECTION. I CAN’T EVEN DEAL WITH THIS. I’M SORRY!’

And the cop turns into my sister, who gets in the car and takes the wheel. She starts driving just as fast as  I was and says to me, “I don’t even know why you care. Nobody gets in trouble for running red lights.” She proceeds to run one to prove her point, and subsequently the siren goes off behind her.

I think this dream means I’m an idiot. At least that’s the way I’ve felt this week. I keep not meaning to be such an idiot, but just because you’re aware you’re being reckless doesn’t always stop the recklessness.

I wonder if this even makes sense at all. I have a lot of things on my mind.

My whole life, in all of these small ways, are changing. Where I live. The things that I do. The things that I have. The things that I don’t. The people that I’m with, and the people that are no longer with me.

I think my methods of adjusting are probably not so enjoyable for those around me. I can’t help it. I’m terrified and excited and all of me in hyperactive in this limbo. I want my life to start. I don’t want it to start so soon. I want to not be stuck in between wanting it to start and it starting. Because the only thing in the middle of a bad thing and a good thing is apprehension—which has never sat well with me.

And all week, through school and work and all of these small infractions against decent models of polite behavior all I wanted to do was write from this STUPID BOOK. THIS TORTUROUS BOOK. A book of prompts that I went to the bookstore. That I bought for myself. For the stupid, asinine challenge that I set for myself to write 1 short story every day for thirty days.

And guess what?

It is day three.

Guess how many short stories I’ve written?

Zero. And not for lack of trying either. In fact, I have three partially written stories off of three very great prompts. And they’re just sitting there—saying, “Finish what you started! You spent $11.99 on that fucking book and now you’re not even going to complete ~*the challenge*~ WHAT KIND OF WOMAN ARE YOU? WHAT WOULD J.K ROWLING OR MARGRET ATWOOD OR [INSERT OTHER FAMOUS LADY AUTHOR HERE] SAY ABOUT THIS?

“They would say, For Shame, Ilana Jacqueline. Then they would smack you upside the head.”

Why do partially written short stories always say a lot more hurtful things than completed ones?

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