Self Note, Jerry Maguire, Too Much Information

Let’s just take one last look.

We wave good-bye. A good-bye to past, err, current circumstance.

I’ve become a clichéd 25-year-old girl.

I was musing on it this morning in my head, and that’s the end result. I’m lying on my stomach at the time, as that’s the only way I can be “comfortable” on the now-entirely deflated air mattress that is my bed. So, I’m lying on rubber on the hardwood floor. The birds won’t stop squawking at me from right outside the window that won’t close right. And, while the sun’s reared its head, it still doesn’t illuminate the room since the overhead light went out days ago; I’ve been using only the TV and my computer for light (I did bring in an intermittent lamp, but it lasted two days – it’s got to be the outlets in this place).

Sobbed like I’d lost my baby brother (I don’t have one, so there shouldn’t be any jinxing.)

Heart-broken, hate (parts of) my job, have few friends to count on, the list I drew out in my head – oh, it started to get long.

The sobbing lasted aboouuuuut 30 seconds. And, I think I was trying to pull it out of me, in a way: “God, this is how you’re living Morgan? You should be so depressed. And sad, be sad. God, affect some sadness!” I may have even tried to shake my shoulders somewhat, but that was impeded by them knocking round on the floor.

Then I snapped myself out of it. Think, think. [Blink, blink.]

And then, I did my characteristic giggling. Rolled over (ouch, watch the right side, the femur’s still sore) and stared at the bouncing DVD cube on the television set.

It’s as if I’ve tried to fast forward through so many emotional things they say “writers” must experience to, well, write well. You can’t write experience if you don’t have it.

I could’ve hobbled over, taken a chair and fixed the overhead light. Or, called our Super, Frank, and had him do it. He’d have taken care of the window, too, I’m sure. I could’ve gimped over to the closet and gotten out the mattress inflator and inflated up the bed. I could’ve bought a real bed. Nope, just didn’t do it. I could’ve gotten over boy by being a floozy. Well.

Maybe I put myself through these self-inflicted inconveniences so I could know how it feels, and how it feels to get myself out of them. I dwell, but I don’t have much tolerance for cliché.

I giggled after the brief bout of sadness because I got an idea for a funny story. One that hopefully I’ll start on today. And, I know that I’m moving, sadly not to L.A. just yet, but to a better-suited apartment.

No more time to be sad. And I made a new resolution, which I’ll keep to myself for now.

Self meeting, adjourned.

"A breakdown? A break through. I couldn't escape one, single thought." Thank you, Jerry Maguire. We shall see.