tomorrow i stand up in front of my shiny new poster and (hopefully) smile in a friendly manner to passers-by who will be politely inquisitive about my work. i am horrified.
and that's only the best-case scenario. other versions include me packing in a flask and drinking from it in between hyperventilation sessions in one of the womens' stalls in the UC, or coming off like a complete bumbling fool next to stillwagon who surely will rake in more glory and attention than me. who pays attention to lady geologists, anyway? it is a well-known fact that our vaginas are hidden behind unruly hygiene and rumpled field clothing. i have it on good authority that the lady chemists are far more attractive, despite their chemical-scarred hands and stunted personalities.
fuck. i am overthinking this. that's probably because the much scarier beast is three days away, separated by a day's solo drive to the coast and a lonely night in a hotel, all of which i am certain will be steeped in fear and gin. well, maybe not gin for the drive. that might be a bad game-plan. definitely. wow, i'm glad i think these things out ahead of time.
some of the SEGSA panic was staved off this afternoon when i packed my bag. it's the typical assemblage: too many shirts, not enough pants, a fresh pack of socks that i had to buy because i am to disorganized a person to keep up with matching pairs of black tube socks, jewelry for every occasion, which is a laugh, because i don't really even wear jewelry, and even make-up, for gods' sake. what fresh hell am i imagining for myself in which i wear make-up? in front of people? people i don't even know?!
ugh. even though i felt better after packing, an act of definition which constrains the limits and predictability of this trip, now i am second-guessing myself and my aims, and i have a feeling tomorrow night's activities will involve unpacking, laying everything out on the bed, and chewing my lip between sips of tequila and wondering whether geology was the right discipline for me after all. fuck.
the bitch of all of this is, that if only my fucking sewing machine wasn't on the fritz, i would be knee-deep in some wonderful art project that would serve its purpose in distracting me from the reality of this very scary situation. if only. i got the thing to work, after a year and a half on the shelf, by simply twisting *one* knob. i'm trying not to get too down on myself about not thinking about twisting that particular knob 2 years ago before i decided all hope was lost and it would be happier in it's box in the back of the guest room closet. it doesn't help that somewhere in between deciding stupidly that it was broken and boxing it up, i completely lost the foot for it, the thing that makes it a sewing machine in the first place.
brilliant. so. blunders in organization and keeping track of things aside, i'm now left with nothing to distract me from the utter and complete black hole of panic that i'm sitting in. the alcohol isn't even helping. well, maybe it is. oh, gods. i shudder to think about the state i'd be in if i weren't drunk right now.
is that bad?
yup.
oh well. i'm gonna go dig through the unruly heap that is the guest room "crafts" closet. in the end i'll probably end up stabbing myself with the needle, which is still attached to the missing foot. yep. this is my life.
Edit: I am complete idiot. fixed the damn machine, about to plunge into this project like there's no tomorrow. this probably involves drinking like there's no tomorrow, too, which... unfortunately... there is.
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