Continued?

That't not even what I meant to write about. I meant to write about this heart problem I seem to be having that is NOT health related. Moreso related to the L word, and my attachments to the wrong people. But now I am crabby and want to read someone else's writing. Bulgakov. I've been getting pretty deep into The Master and Margarita and it's getting fucking weird so I want to get back to it tonight, hopefully run a good stretch since I'm nearing the last quarter. It feels good to get stupid other shit off my chest though. Obviously if that's what my fingers ended up typing despite my intentions, then that's what needed to come out. I'm going to try to make myself type SOMETHING, ANYTHING every day. Every day. I have to create good writing habits. I'm seriously smothering underneath all that's inside me trying to get out. And it's so busy in here at this point I can't even tell the thoughts apart or untangle them enough to lay the out for you. So for a bit it will just be rambling, unloading, blowing off extra steam to make room for the more important maneuvering to come later. It will need space, and time, and clarity. Right now it's a fucking hoarder's closet in here. Better to just open the door and let what needs to fall out first do so and get it out of the way. Make room for real organization and focus. This is happening easier that I expected so here's to hoping I do not fail.