Ever created your own mess, and then had to try for a couple of days to find a way out of it? Ending up stressed out, and physically exhausted. Exhaustion then causes you to be mentally hazy, so you don’t think clearly enough to be able to solve your problem. And don't forget to throw your burned-out emotional state onto that cold pile of ashes that used to be your hard work.
Open confession is supposed to be good for the soul, ‘they’ say. Guess I’ll see in a minute or two, after writing this. I have no earthly idea who ‘they’ supposedly is, but if I don’t feel any better by the time I have finished writing this column, I definitely want to lease a vicious hunting dog and find ‘they.’ Maybe after tying ‘they’ to a fencepost and forcing ‘they’ to listen to this tale of woe, I would then actually feel better.
My problem started spectacularly at 11:30 last night, as I lay in bed, bug-eyed, jittery, and sleepless. Way too late I remembered that I shouldn’t have eaten those Southwest Spring Rolls in the restaurant earlier that evening. There’s not a Southwest Spring Roll alive in my corner of this state that doesn’t have a liberal sprinkling of preservatives hidden in it. I KNOW that. And I also know I am one of those favored few who suffer twelve hours of sleeplessness after eating those dreaded additives.
Fast forward to the next morning… after all, is there anyone reading this who wants to hear about an entire night of staring at the ceiling?
I was to be a guest musician in a church four hours from my home that morning, so I had taken my laptop to use in the service. It all went great. I thoroughly enjoyed the people and loved participating in worship with them.
After our goodbyes, we loaded up my various paraphernalia, and drove the four hours back home. At this point, really tired and fuzzy-headed from being too long without sleep, but emotionally still functioning.
Until…
Three hours later, I suddenly realized I had left my laptop on the sound technician’s station of that church. The same laptop that I use to write this weekly column. The laptop that holds my previously written, perfectly edited article, ready to send to the newspapers this week.
At that point, my emotional put-together disappeared. I am now writing on my phone, frantically scrambling to replace my previously mentioned column.
But even after it’s finished, I realize that I’ll still need to somehow attach this column to an email for one hundred twenty+ newspaper editors. But all their email addresses are stored in…you guessed it.
‘Nuff said.
We all have them. Those days you just crave to hurl something breakable, stick out your lower lip in a gigantic pout, and yell, “Lord, I quit. I’m telling ya’, I QUIT.”
Better get a good night’s sleep before doing that.
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