Boymeat (boymeat) wrote,

  • Mood:

Must. Stop. Hands. From. Shaking.

Want your coffee nicely stirred? Put them in my hands.

I am a nervous fucking wreck. My muscles are tighter than they have ever been. My neck has tightened up to the point that it hurts to turn my head even the slightest amount to the right. My stomach has an entire swarm of butterflies dress rehearsing their chaotic mating rituals inside it. And I have a headache.

I can't believe this move has me so agitated. My brain knows and recognizes all the logical and accurate statements - this is gonna be great, this is the best thing to happen, you will love it, blah blah blah. But it doesn't matter. I'm still worrying like a Jewish grandmother doting on her grandson without a hat.

The entire remainder of my being is freaking out. And, I can't even really put a finger on why. The move itself? The process of arranging the apartment? Living alone? Grocery shopping/food? I can't get the fucking apartment out of my head. I lie down to go to sleep, and my brain goes to ludicrous speed thinking about what needs to be done - hell, I've gone to plaid.

I need a beer. Or drugs. A blowjob would do nicely too. Something.


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