Out of necessity — nay, survival — I am being forced to scale back on several different facets of my life…including ye olde livejournal. Unfortunately, that means that this weekend I will be making the dreaded (ACK!) friends list cuts.

Along with beating the babies and schtupping the ol’ man, I am writing two feature scripts, doing the research for a third, and forging on with the intermittent television writing and producing gigs that continue to find their way onto my life. I am also working on my book, as well as a piece for an upcoming anthology. In between all that bastard typing, beating, and schtupping, I have just started a new course of treatment for my condition that is turning out to be not much goddamned fun at all. For those of you who know me well, you would not have recognized the mess that was sitting in this chair last night — HYSTERICALLY BELLY CRYING — a needle and syringe full of a potent medicine in my hand…aimed at my own flesh. I sorta feel as though I am just barely holding on right now. Anything that is extraneous or in any way fraught with difficulty, excessive effort, or stress above and beyond the usual horror that is life in the 21st century has simply got to go; those, my friends, are doctor’s orders.

If I am to be perfectly honest, I should tell you that it’s very difficult for me to admit this current chink in my armor, as it is not in my nature to do so. I come from wicked hearty peasant stock — the sort who birth their babies whilst squatting in the vineyard…and don’t miss a fucking beat with the pruning shears or a really scorching governmental grassroots revolution; we don’t slow down for much. No matter what, I have always been able to keep pushing forward…hard; Much to my amusement, I have even been referred to, on more than one occasion, as The Unsinkable Muffy Brown. However, over the past year, because of various and incremental health issues, I have been forced to simmer down now. It has been nothing short of a lesson in humility.

So, the only reason I bring the subject up at all is that if anybody out there has grown weary of my debaucherous self and has been thinking of cutting my fatass loose as of late, the time to do it is now — you can save me the trauma! Just hit the clicky button and say, “Be gone, vulgarian trash!”…and I promise I shall depart post haste.

In the end, I am and will be more than fine; that is in my nature. Myself, my husband, and the team of specialists who treat me have every faith that this course of treatment will help me to get back to some semblance of normalcy. I believe that with all my heart. But in the meantime, for me, it is a time for simplifying, pulling in, and letting go.

For the very first time in my life, I have no choice in the matter.