It’s all just sitting there. Taunting me.

All of the things I want are staring back at me from where I sit on the couch, trying to make sense of this work I have to do and dreaming about things like painting over nail holes.

Is this what I’ve become? A nail-hole dreamer? Am I so reduced that even the thought of laundry seems like a novelty?

Ugh. This week can’t end fast enough.

This time next week, I’LL BE WRITING AGAIN. It’s gonna feel so good. Like, “avert your eyes now,” good. Real life is poo, but luckily my latest time sink is about wrapping up. Even so, Blood And Bone is already about 10,000 words and mocking me. It’s just sitting there on the other side of things going “Oh, this critical reveal? You wanted to tell everyone about how Summer found out about Maithe Dweubhal (by the way, that is pronounce Mayth DEY-vull)? You wanna know why Lia still banishes things when she could totally just chill out and paint things all day? You wanted that?”

Why is everything so mean?

It is mean because I am a dedicated biatch, and do things I hate because they’re good for me, mostly. Well. That and sometimes the things are ignorant and aggressively afraid. But mostly the first thing.

I will also be starting on the shelving around my fireplace, painting over those damned nail holes, and buying ALL THE WINE.

Look at it, flaunting its coves. Even the cat knows it’s being rude.

May your week be as good as nail-hole painting and as exciting as writing about being fourteen.