One of my goals this year is to post in this blog more regularly, but somehow, it's all of 8 days in and I'm already putting it off. It's not that I don't want to, or even that busy since I've been sick all season so far. I just keep thinking I'm going to come up with something really sharp and sparkily to get me going. But that's the kind of thinking that stalled me out posting in the first place. I have to just sit down and write something and whatever comes out, comes out. Long clunky sentences and all.
So tonight this is what I'm doing: I'm up on my bullshit, by which I mean listening to Bowie and drinking canned wine. When I was trying to jerk off in the shower, I noticed my kneecap had a splinter the width of my little finger in it, so I also dealt with that tonight. It's windy and strange and hot outside, though the storms are passing to our north.
Earlier, when I got done with my run, I went into the backyard and sat on the steps that don't lead anywhere. I had a nightmare last night that we had moved to some other house - and it was a real house that we had actually looked at 10 years ago when we first moved to Staunton - but it was tight and narrow and crowded against the neighbors. In the dream, I hated the new house and I was wildly upset, the irrational way you are sometimes in dreams, about leaving my garden. So in my waking life, I guess I wanted to go sit in the yard awhile. Also, I wanted to see about petting a cat I know back there.
It's that time of year where every little tiny warmer day makes me think of spring and camping. I know that's so stupid because winter has hardly started, and if I'm this irrational now, how bad will I be in two months? But sitting back there, smelling the grass and wet open stone, it felt not so far. I want to move again; I want to not be sick.
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