I’m reading a book about a woman who finds peace and quiet at her kitchen table (in her favorite chair, of course), drinking coffee, and then watches her days melt around her. But she doesn’t take it lying down (except when she’s on the patio after a Hammock Incident), no, she curses, blames Bush-era politics, and curses some more. You should read it, and if I had brought it with me, I’d type you up a nice little excerpt. If it weren’t for WHY DO I NEVER BRING THE GOOD BOOKS; I NEED SOMETHING TO COUNTERACT BLUES CLUES FOR THE FIFTY-SEVENTH GODDAMNED TIME. GODDAMNED GEORGE BUSH AND KARL ROVE, SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! (Well, it’s an approximation anyway.) Like the Cursing Mommy, I sometimes refer to myself in the third person, fly into rages (my fucking coffee is weak, I KNEW better than to buy coffee in fucking [town redacted], I blame fucking Rick Santorum), and get by all for the grace of my invisible friends (that would be you). Unlike Cursing Mommy, I have not yet taken to drinking at 8 am.
I’ve finished up the first pass of my minor paper and am resisting doing the second pass. It took me a long time to settle down and focus, but it’s not due until tomorrow, and I may need the excuse. Maybe I’ll read a book, or nap. (Why don’t you write? you may ask. Well, I came up with ten great ideas last night as I lay awake with insomnia, but forgot all of them by morning. I did dream about an acceptance and praise, which I vaguely remember. Somehow it also had to do with real estate, because my dreams make no sense.)
Work: refuge or tyranny?