It’s cold. It’s gloomy. It’s raining. I’ve been out of the house for more hours than I would have liked. I’m frustrated. My brain feels like it’s in a vice. I’m afraid to turn on the baseboard heaters on. The space heater my boyfriend purchased a month ago trips the circuit breaker nearly every time it’s turned on and I don’t have the patience to roll it over to the living room, shut everything down, and then poke around the breaker to fix it.
I poured what little energy I had left into two writing assignments that were 200 words a piece. Now, writing for myself is like pulling teeth.
My grandmother keeps calling me, asking me to do things for her. Take her to the hairdresser. Take my grandfather to the barber. Take her on a drive because she’s got cabin fever. She lives with my parents, an hour away. It’s not practical. I don’t make a lot of money. The gas I filled up yesterday is almost halfway gone and that was supposed to last me a week. I just can’t do it.
I want a nap. I keep bargaining with myself. If you write this one thing, you can nap. If you put dinner in the crock pot by two, you can nap. If you wash half of the dishes in the sink, you can nap.
Clearly I haven’t napped.
Eh, fuck it.