There are a lot of factors going into my current mind loss, including boring personal ones like women, finances and bogglins, but what’s really slowly draining my sanity is working from home.

Working from home at first seems like paradise. Pants? Optional. Jerk off whenever the mood strikes. You can listen to music, watch TV, play a video game. Fuck, I’m laying in bed with my laptop right now – it’s more comfortable than sitting at my desk.

But after a couple of months the isolation of working at home begins to take its toll. Back in New York I had two cats sharing the house, so I could at least talk to them. Many an hour would be lost chasing those fuzzy little bastards around. Here in Studio City we can’t even have animals visit. I had a visitor this weekend who brought her tiny, adorable dog and getting her out of the house without alerting the building manager took on The Great Escape proportions in my screwy mind.

I get out of the house during the day – screenings, junkets, etc, although I go to fewer than I did in New York for various reasons – but I haven’t found a good place to work outside of home in Studio City. Even then, I’m not a huge fan of going to the coffee shop to write; it’s too noisy and busy and I drink too much coffee and get cranky. So I sit at my desk (or chill in my bed) and do my work, finding myself actually missing having annoying co-workers stop by my office and bugging me. I imagine how cool it would be to have a CHUD Central office here in Los Angeles. There are even some offices for rent across from my place that I’ve fantasized about (look, I have a busy internal life).

It’s nice having a couple of friends who work from home, or who work evenings, since they can lunch with me, helping me keep my sanity for another day or two. But just a day or two, and then I’m crawling up the walls of my apartment while trying to get some writing done for the site.

When I finally snap you’ll know why.