It is very difficult, sometimes, to sit down and just write. This is not news to anyone, especially the ones who actually do sit down to just write on a more regular basis than I. This place, this piece of real estate, this diaryland dot com was supposed to be the candy that lured me to my keyboard.
And sure, when I was working in a regular office, with regular lunch breaks, and not giving even four ounces of excrement about what I did for a living, this was a welcome break in the middle of my day while I took guilty bites of whatever I was eating for lunch. I couldn't wait to turn to the little white box where I could hide all my public secrets. I didn't even mind too much when that that same box would sometimes, for no reason at all, wipe out what was almost always a piece of genius work, a bit of literature that might have, if not been passed around for Booker Prize short listing, at least may have been considered for quoting.
There is a dress to gush about and a pair of shoes and also a long weekend. There are many hours of rum-soaked guitars and gin-soaked voices and rain-soaked fun. There is a puzzlement at the fact that last year at this time, I was all rah-rah-it's-my-birthday-in-X-amount-of-hours-and-seconds, and this year, I'm leaving behind a whole decade and starting a new untrustworthy one, and I'm just meh about it. There is the birthday itself and the four days leading up to it, and the 11 days to the celebration of it, and the 15 days to the almost definite post-birthday slump that I always suffer. There is weight to whinge about, because that is what I do; weight I have lost and weight I have gained and weight that has decided to relocate from my bottom to my thighs to my breasts, and eventually, to my head.
There is much to write about. I can't wait to start.
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