(no subject)

I've written less this week than usual, which is a side effect of the zombified feeling I have going on now. I probably wouldn't been able to switch my schedule on my own if they gave me a week off, but it might have helped. It's certainly worse than going to nights. At the time I started this job, I was unemployed and spending a lot of time sleeping on Melynda's couch.

Cats imitate their owners. Slate is yawning at me and rolling around on the floor. I'd lay down, but then I'd not ever get up again.

Gene's going to UMass in August. I'm really getting old if Gene's old enough to go to grad school. I'd love to go back to school, but I haven't the faintest clue any longer what I want to do there.

I would feel a lot better if Melynda's birthday present would shop up right about now. Or not right this moment as the mailman is tired of me answering the door in my bra, surely. What I'd like to do instead of get ready for work is listen to the Cool World soundtrack over and over, and read this book on Russian history.

It's almost the weekend.

(no subject)

At this time last week, I was dreading going in to work. Today, I've been out of work for 30 minutes. Let me say, it feels damn good. I'm watching the end of Trading Spaces, and pulling off my shoes.