Ykno, I’ve been feeling rather good, rather productive the last few days – upbeat, but way busy, you know the drill – and now I find myself in front of my laptop and surly again. It’s not you. It’s not Viktor. I ate my dinner too fast, and with too much dicey conversation that made me feel defensive (conversation that I still find myself returning to, and wonder perhaps if I ought to speak to someone about that), and now I’m debating.

Do I stay home? Do I go out?

If I stay home, I can mope, I can whip out this little paper I need to do, I can feel abdominally miserable for as long as my innards are protesting, I can do more of the reading for class tomorrow, I can do those bits of my Lenten discipline that I’ve not yet done today, I can post the lj update on a certian subject that I’ve wanted to since Sunday (maybe, ykno, if I have enough energy), and I might even write.

If I go out, I won’t be able to mope as I might actually see someone and they might smile at me and then I might not want to be mopey anymore, I’ll have to whip out the paper when I return, possibly tipsy (not that that sort of thing has stopped me before), Cry, The Beloved Country will simply not get finished tonight, my Lenten discipline may or may not go completely out the window on Day 2 (not actually a great sign)… but I will participate in community life, which is not the easiest thing for me to do, I will get out and have an opportunity to interact with the artistic juniors (who on the whole are entirely too cool for me, in many senses of that phrase), I probably won’t write – though you just never know about this sort of thing – and I might not actually get to emailing ladykes like I said I would.

And the Speakeasy started three minutes ago, as I write this line.

And yet, I’m still waffling, which tells me something. It tells me that though I’d not planned to go at all, that when someone asked me if I’d be there – one of those aforementioned cool, artistic juniors – and I said no, that I realized I didn’t have any good reason not to go, not even my own desire to not go.

Of course, there is the wonky stomach aspect, but the nausea is coming and going. And I could always walk home again. It’s not a 30 second walk, but it’s not five minutes, either. Hm. Maybe I’ll see if rakaiagirl wants to walk over.

::thinks hard:: Ykno, I’m fairly certain that my mopiness has nothing to do with nausea, and everything to do with the conversation at dinner – what I’m beginning to think of as the sort of difficult conversation at dinner. Maybe I should do something constructive about that. Direct communication, how thou art a pain in my ass.