Wednesday, January 6, 2016

Sense? You want me to make that? And I do

Wishing I had a heavy bag. No punching of anything for two weeks has me crazy.

I'm currently blaming my two weeks of writer's block on the holidays. Because fuck those things. I don't even celebrate the damn things myself, but there were gatherings that needed to be attended and it took a lot out of me.

I know how lame that sounds. Trust me, I know.

Today is whining day.

So my martial arts studio was closed for two weeks for the holiday. Turns out not getting to punch people twice a week is detrimental to my mental well-being. I knew this in the back of my head, but this past few weeks really drove it home.

I have a green belt test in possibly twelve weeks. I had a nice training plan set up and then the holidays happened and I got sick. Actually now it's more like eleven weeks. I wonder, if I ask nicely, if my instructor will let me wait an extra cycle. That would give me another six weeks.

I just now connected my illness lasting over a week (Normally two days, three max. I'm a quick healer.) to the holidays.

Makes sense. Christ, they aren't even that bad. I don't have any toxic relatives.  They just require a lot of socialization and that is very hard on me, being a 200% introvert with social anxiety and a permanent case of the awkwards coupled with my "I'm over forty, I'm running out of fucks to give, you don't get any," syndrome.

Leaving my regular job is still playing havoc with my brain as well. I was hoping it wouldn't but it has.

It'll pass. It'll pass. This too shall pass. It always has before.

It only FEELS like forever.

I really hope we have second class tonight. We don't always have it. Depends on which instructor is there.

The image search for catharsis was too chaotic. I couldn't choose. 
The image search for sense was, surprisingly, sort of dull.
Except for one picture. Which I'm not sure about using.
The image search for pummel turned up this.
Second class is where the shit gets real. Second class is where I get to pummel the boys. Yeah, the boys pummel me too. Good, clean, violent fun.

None of them are over thirty, so they're all boys to me. Even the one that made the police force last year. 'Course I don't call them that, but I can't help thinking it. I call them all "sir". Or "gentlemen" for collective address.

Just because it's fun.

This entry is going nowhere. Yeah, I'm typing, but I don't feel I'm accomplishing anything. Not even the catharsis I'm seeking. Sometimes if I type long enough, genius rears it's head. Genius is giving me a pass today. I don't even get the courtesy of a single deuce. I'm just being ignored.

Damn, I really want a cigarette. Or a drink. No drink before class. No drink after class either. Water and bed. 

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