Now this is fun. And confusing.

Living this wonderfully schizophrenic writer’s life–both inside and outside one’s own head at the same time–presents some pretty interesting discoveries. And jealousy is one of them.

I am a person who loves my friends. And I have recently found myself jealous. Of myself. For spending time with them.

How bizarre.

I have dinner and drinks planned with my friend M. tomorrow night. I’m very much looking forward to talking with the friend I haven’t seen in a month. And I’m jealous. Mid-week, I’m having a group of comrade from work over for dinner, the eagerly-awaited next installment of one of the most interesting, lively conversation-fests I’ve enjoyed in some time. And I’m jealous.

The friend in me says “You’re on!” The writer in me says “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re supposed to be spending time with me!” Oh dear. This is one of the worst who’s-in-control issues since my last long-term relationship.

Will the jealous writer sabotage the pleasure in the time stolen from the page? Will the friend be able to enjoy the company of the folks who help keep her brain alive? Stay tuned….

In the meantime, help me, somebody.

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