Writing Clears Out Clusterfuck

The notorious half-Chow-chow, half-Spitz Barak, biter of mom

That's about all I'm going to say about all the personal storm that's growling inside me now. Bad things from all quarters, but don't worry, none of it is nearly as bad as possibly losing the house to a flood which was all we were worried about during that nasty Habagat.

The truth is everything I feel is a product of bad story-telling, and the way to solve it is *gasp* to write about it. The Pennebaker experiment says this much and strangely, it has been working. It's strange that I think it's strange, I write for a living and outside of it, come on. Somehow, those unbroken 20 minutes of unfiltered mad scribbling allow me to transfer some bad energy onto the page and out of my head. It leaves me feeling like a dog would minutes after a fight. Absolutely unaffected and totally in the now. He's not ruminating about the fight or over-analyzing it with fellow dogs and other creatures. He's just there, chill as hell, wagging his tail as if nothing ever happened. I strive to be that dog.

P.S. I've taken to timing my activities so I don't go around squandering the one resource I have total control over, but let me tell you how the Sci-fi alarm in the iPod Touch totally freaks me out.