Whatever

I can't sleep, which is no surprise because I drank one of those little half bottles of an excellent Australian shiraz. I used to live on that stuff--the much, much cheaper kind--for so many years that I was surprised how good it tasted. Since I'm such a lightweight these days, I got fairly tipsy and insomnia has kicked in.

My guy is fine: He pulled himself together once he understood the magnitude of the situation and switched on the love. Also, I bought him some nice local porter and some of those hippy tofu ice cream sandwiches.

Of course, Disc 4 of BSG was checked out at the video store. Of course. So I made do with a stupid Will Ferrell movie (my guy finds him extremely funny, and some stupidity was right up my alley). It was just one of those days.

I'm finding the thought of moving on to another cycle a bit daunting. I mean, injections would theoretically start tomorrow. I thought, as I prepared myself for a likely let down, that this fact would comfort me. But somehow it doesn't. Part of me just says, oh boy. More feeling like shit ahead. What fun. The thrill is gone.

It's all just so fucking pointless, folks. I mean, even if I get what I really want, who cares?

I'm very tempted to throw in the towel on multiple fronts because all I've been doing this past year is soldiering bravely on through the useless dis, all sorts of other dead-end projects, the seemingly relentless bad luck. Maybe it's time to move to my parents' farm and raise veggies for Whole Foods. Why do I need to be some scholar or writer or whatever? Clearly, I'm not meant to be a mother, either.

Several hours later...

The voice of my inner coach speaks: "Come on, Shinejil! Pull it together! You're going to get through this, you're going to find your little corner of bliss replete with poison ivy and ticks, and soon you'll be flying high on that estrogen buzz and will think you're invincible, like someone on angeldust. Rah rah rah! Now go back to bed."