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dragonlady7Waiting to go wait for the bus. The angle at which I have to hold my laptop screen verges upon the utterly ridiculous. I should get this computer fixed. But, not just now. Bah.
I keep feeling like I was thinking something both important and satisfyingly entertaining and have only just forgotten what it was. Problem is, I've been having that feeling for about four or five straight days now. It is very annoying.
Hence my sitting here, a little bit confused, looking at this empty box. I know I fired this up to write something important. Or at least worthwhile. I know I did. I was just thinking of something... something... there was something... there, oh, it's gone. What was it? I don't know.
Dammit.
It's only going to get worse this week. I'm working five days. We're insufferably short-staffed. I'm hoping that the sheer bloody amoung of time I'm going to have to spend on the bus and sitting around waiting for the bus will force me to concentrate, out of boredom. Otherwise this is going to be unendurable.
Z cleaned the kitchen yesterday-- somewhat, anyway-- and for that he gets affection: but then he made a messy dinner, so the kitchen is messy again. And I sigh at that. I don't have time to spend my one day off cleaning the kitchen. I am trying to get back into my productive mode. I am trying to finish this bloody novel. But I'm going to sit and worry: I ought to be cleaning the house since I'm not getting anything done here, but I ought to be getting something done here, and oh bugger, I wish I could just split half myself off and make the nervous-energy half go clean the fucking kitchen (and bathroom, and bedroom, and living room, and porch) already and leave the rest of me to lie here in a pool of productive imagining.
But that doesn't really work.
Oh bother.
I keep feeling like I was thinking something both important and satisfyingly entertaining and have only just forgotten what it was. Problem is, I've been having that feeling for about four or five straight days now. It is very annoying.
Hence my sitting here, a little bit confused, looking at this empty box. I know I fired this up to write something important. Or at least worthwhile. I know I did. I was just thinking of something... something... there was something... there, oh, it's gone. What was it? I don't know.
Dammit.
It's only going to get worse this week. I'm working five days. We're insufferably short-staffed. I'm hoping that the sheer bloody amoung of time I'm going to have to spend on the bus and sitting around waiting for the bus will force me to concentrate, out of boredom. Otherwise this is going to be unendurable.
Z cleaned the kitchen yesterday-- somewhat, anyway-- and for that he gets affection: but then he made a messy dinner, so the kitchen is messy again. And I sigh at that. I don't have time to spend my one day off cleaning the kitchen. I am trying to get back into my productive mode. I am trying to finish this bloody novel. But I'm going to sit and worry: I ought to be cleaning the house since I'm not getting anything done here, but I ought to be getting something done here, and oh bugger, I wish I could just split half myself off and make the nervous-energy half go clean the fucking kitchen (and bathroom, and bedroom, and living room, and porch) already and leave the rest of me to lie here in a pool of productive imagining.
But that doesn't really work.
Oh bother.
