Writing Comedown

Guhh. Here it is: the depressive, unfocussed slump left in the wake of a particularly intense period of writing. I wrote four articles last week - something for Xtra West, in their current issue, about an unofficial "Peanuts" derivation that explores, in part, homophobic bullying ("Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenaged Blockhead," in its final night tonight at Havana); and three articles for the Skinny, on Shearing Pinx, Tunnel Canary, and the Rebel Spell/ Subhumans show (see below). I negotiated all that while also making a weekend trip to a casino in the States with my parents; finishing a somewhat intense final week of marking and report cards at work; and cutting sugar almost completely out of my diet, on the advice of my endodontist (who started work on my root canal two weeks ago). There's an excitement felt, writing that much, putting that much focussed effort into things; but there's definitely a comedown afterwards. Having set aside a weekend to NOT write, to just relax and recharge my batteries, I suddenly am all too aware that my apartment's a mess, that I feel fat and exhausted, that I'm still single, and that I have a larger-than-usual pile of laundry to get to; and all I want to do is flop back into bed. All my hard work should be rewarded with a blowjob and a massage, at the very least, but none are forthcoming! And so I pout. What fucking good is this writing stuff anyhow?