This is the way I usually kill blogs--something big happens, and I put off posting about it for a while, but in that time, more stuff happens, and eventually the backlog is too overwhelming to address. Still, this is hardly a sequential chronicle of my life's events, more of a murky skid mark, so I'll struggle forward--valiantly, I'm sure.
I've tried to make 2012 the year of BEING A FUCKING ADULT. So far, it's going okay. Adults exercise, have usable desk space, clean front seats. They wear matching bra and panty sets. I've found it easier to address the practical applications of adultdom (grammar being not necessary one of those) than the emotional kind, but I don't think I'm doing badly at that either. I've successfully kept bad people out of my life, actually followed through with things I legitimately wanted instead of wussing out a couple times. It's hard, though. I really need...a job. I'd feel so much better if I had a real job.
I've been sleeping poorly. I go to bed early, fall asleep easily, but then I always wake up. 1 am, 3 am, 5 am. It's like clockwork. It's only since I've been home, too. It must be something about this house.
This post has very little direction and certainly no plot. I doubt it has a moral. Today, I organized, scrubbed and sorted the spice cabinets, the coffee/tea cabinet, dried and put away all the tents, woke up my garden, swept the patio, trimmed and cleared all the dead leaves off my perennials, went for a long run, made dinner, put away the clothes I washed, and readied the next goodwill box. My cheeks are windburned, and thus, permanently blush-pink. Who am I to complain about a Sunday?
No comments:
Post a Comment