Today’s the day I’m supposed to hear back from my editor about my manuscript. Have been looking forward to this day with intense excitement and dread for 3 weeks now.
Not sure what time I’ll hear from editor, so have been sitting at my desk with eyes glued to Gmail tab for over 3 hours already. Every time the number of unread emails listed on the tab jumps from “253” to “254” (yes, I realize that’s a lot of unread emails and I should be better about deleting SPAM from my inbox), I think, “Oh, God. It’s here!” Quickly click on Gmail tab, only to be simultaneously disappointed and relieved that it’s just another email from one of the gazillion job sites I signed up for (out of panic due to writer’s block) sending me news of more “opportunities” to work for the man. DELETE.
Downstairs dog providing his usual soundtrack of anguished yelps and howls. Except today, his sounds of suffering playing in the background is actually a pretty good reflection of my own emotional state. Started thinking that maybe he hasn’t been suffering the anal probes of aliens all this time, but has actually been reaching out to commiserate with his anguished neighbor upstairs. Decided to —
254! 254! 254!! OH GOD! IT’S HERE!
Ugh. False alarm. Just an email from a website called Doggie Vogue where I bought a sweater for Duncan once. DELETE.
Great — lost train of thought, and will probably never know what important thing I had decided to do before the false alarm.
Nerves on edge. Can’t take the suspense. The number 254 has become my Number 23 (one of Jim Carey‘s worst movies), my 11:11 (another bad movie I saw recently), my 3:33 a.m. witching hour (from some exorcist movie I can’t remember the title of). Am starting to see the number 254 everywhere I look now. 254 dog food pellets in Duncan’s bowl. 254 old lottery tickets crammed in my wallet. $254 on my credit card bill statement. (Mental note: pay credit card bill and buy Powerball ticket today.)
Downstairs dog has paused his requiem of sorrow. He, too, has probably lost his train of thought or is obsessing over the number 254 and can’t remember what comes after the first 17 refrains of howls. Answer is 17 more refrains of howls, but think I’ll just let him sit in silence for a while to figure that out for himself.
Am starting to understand why writers drink so much.