I felt really odd at work today, sort of like I was sleep-walking or dreaming, or something equally disorienting. I kept sort of zoning out and jerking back to awareness to realize that I'd made a whole line of pepermint mochas without really paying attention. I felt dizzy and tired, and at one point everything sort of jerked to the side and I nearly passed out. Suffice it to say my manager sent me home after about six hours of this.

My mood was also sort of...wonky. Ish. I kept flashing through extreme moments of depression, and then into extreme moments of anger, to the point that I wanted to punch customers in the face. More than usual, I mean.

Anyway--there's this girl I work with who is, let's just say, one of the least intelligent people I have ever met. Not in a mean way, or anyting, she just isn't very smart. I mentioned that I'd just started watching a show, and she said, "Oh, I love that show. Dude, that bad guy totally kills--." And then she says the name of a character, thereby completely spoiling a big part of it for me. I got really pissed off and shouted at her, which was really immautre and stupid of me.

I apologized afterward, of course, but I got to thinking. Fiction--ie, things I'm currently reading/watching/playing--are a giant part of my life. To the point that I get really upset if someone ruins them for me. It's stupid, really, when I think about it, but it also makes me realize how much of my life I spend outside of my life and in someone else's. Someone who doesn't exist, really. As a writer I guess this happens a lot, but I'd just never really thought about it to so much extent before today.

Oh well, real life sucks, fake life is awesome. That's the way it is.