Excuses
You know what’s almost* as fun to read as a real post? That’s right! A post explaining why there aren’t any real posts. This right here? That’s what this is.
I have two whole posts written out in my head, you see, and I really do mean that—I’ve even worked out most of the wording. I haven’t had time to type anything up for the last four or five days in a row because I’ve gotten home after dark every night and had more homework (and workwork) than time. Today I got home “early” at around 7:45, and yet, five hours later, I have nothing to show for my evening except a thrice-walked puppy, a load of laundry, and a half-clean bathroom. Now that it’s getting late, I won’t even have a full night’s sleep to show for it, either.
I’ll try not to bore you with whiny details, but I’m frustrated by my aversion to “doing things,” even THINGS I LIKE TO DO. I like blogging. I was excited about what I was going to write tonight—I thought it up while I was walking Sam, and it seemed like a good fit for today and possibly even interesting to people who are not me. And yet. I’ve been “about to start writing” for the last three or four hours. Ugh. Bed. This three-day weekend can’t come soon enough**.
EDIT: Sorry for the excessive grouchiness. Today has been an up-and-down, emotional sort of day, mostly for reasons beyond my control. I did have a lovely sandwich, though.
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* Slight exaggeration.
** I have deleted and rewritten this sentence several times. Looking forward to things upsets me; I feel as though I’m wishing the future would be here now, which, in my current state of mind, is about the most horrible thing I can imagine wishing for. I feel like I’m jinxing myself by writing it down.