Was all hubbly bubbly today when, suddenly, the darkness took me.
Me: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEE!
Think it's adrenaline withdrawal.
I mean, I woke up with a purpose. One interview and a huge meeting later today. Add to that the fact that my Blackberry was disintegrating on me. It kept dialing the number 'Q'. And the character '#'.
This is perhaps due to me fielding calls in the morning, from six different people. In the shower.
Water and electronics apparently don't mix very well.
Add to the whole mess, a VERY eventful week, punctuated by a very empty Saturday night. I finished everything I needed to do and was only 15 minutes late for my meeting.
Which is good cause it gives me time to catch up on some work. Which I'm doing, of course.
It's shifting gears, man. I am pretty shifty, I guess. One minute, I was on top of the world, the next, I am in a bottomless pit of despair.
And I also remember, or perhaps my mind is remembering that, as a journalist, I have always been extremely terrified. Most of the work is done, to deal with that fear. You stand on a precipice, a ledge, a cliff. And if there are no catchers in the rye field, I'd have flung my body and soul to the rocks below.
But there are catchers. I've known them for years. And I trust them. And I need to do my bit as well.
Man, I thought I was over the fear. I guess I never will. It will always be there. Writing for daily publications, some immediately become adrenaline junkies. The best of us either revel in it, or develop a very calm and calculated demeanour. Cool in the sadle. Or start laughing at everything like a maniac.
I'd be lying if I said I was not scared shitless. I mean, I went to the toilet just now, and no shit came out!
There. Shitless!
Oh well.
What can I do?
Come to think of it, I do have some laxatives...and cough syrup.
Nahhh. Night's still early. A wo-man is coming and driving me to a place where they sell pints of the right stuff. When I'm full of the right stuff, I can do shit.
Yay!
