By Andrew E. Kaufman
I have a new book coming out in just six days.
(Deep breath)
It’s been almost two years since I’ve been able to say that. After I signed a publishing deal, there were delays. I was okay with this, even anticipated it—but still,
I’ve managed to accomplish what I do best.
Make myself crazy.
It's a special skill. Do not attempt this for the first time alone. I've spent years honing my craft, and it's not for the weak. Should you choose to fall into global anxiety, please be sure to have a tolerant support system around you. And possibly some bungee cords, potting soil, and an assortment of down pillows. (Don't ask. You'll find out.)
Of course, there are the usual obsessive concerns: Will my
readers still remember me after all this time? Will their enthusiasm over my work
wither and die? Will I wither and
die? Will the publishing business continue to gyrate, explode, then shoot me straight
into oblivion?
This is just a partial glimpse into the neurotic and continuously
spiraling mind that keeps me awake late into the night and swimming the shifting
tides of global uncertainty during the day. And other melodrama.
In a way this spinning cycle of insanity is good, because on some level it keeps me on my
toes and hungry—but in other ways, not really so much. Let's face it, folks: Anxiety isn't pretty. It's dominating and ferocious and greedy, but it ain't pretty.
So, in an effort to self-medicate and to talk myself off
the ledge and out of the pain vortex, logical thinking went out the window, and
reckless overindulgence flew the in through the cuckoo’s nest.
I took a little jaunt over to this joint:
And inhaled me a little of this:
And thought inappropriate things about this:
That's all.
