I'm feeling properly strange today. I'm bored, but I'm too tired to do something about it. I want to write, but the right gears aren't turning. There's a lot of cleaning and organizing to be done, but I don't have the focus to get it done.
Lawn. Haircut. Litterbox. The words bounce around in my head like ping pong balls in the dryer. The dishes stare at me from the sink. You don't leave for work for another hour. What are you doing?
Fuck off, dishes. Not now.
Then when? When you get back from work? Because you're full of energy then.
Seriously, dishes, shut up.
Hot coffee was a bad idea. It's thick outside, thick with that stupid Northeast humidity and sunlight, thick with the sound of a weedwhacker three lawns over as I peer at my black car with black leather seats from my porch. It's been sitting in the sun all morning, and I know which curses I'll be muttering as I get into it.
I know what I want to do tonight, and I hate that I probably won't get to do it. I hate all the steps between me and this plan, hate the hours that span the difference stuck doing what I enjoy doing, but do nothing to bring me closer to my selfish little goal.
Hate's a strong word. Maybe not hate.
Zevran nips at my ankles, his little monkeyface begging me to stay home, to hide away from responsibility and disappointment and fatigue. All he wants is a little affection, a quiet afternoon on the couch peppered with drowse and the occasional snack. Me too, Zev. Me too.
But not today. And I trundle off upstairs, laptop in hand, wondering what I can listen to in the shower that stands a chance at improving my mood.
i hear this, all the way. with any luck, it will pass. i mean, it will, eventually, but pass soon, i suppose, is the hope.
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