It’s Saturday morning and all is quiet in the neighbourhood. The dingbat who thought it was smart to mow the lawn at the crack of dawn has finally put the machine away. The Old Boy is out buying us a new oven, after one too many disasters for dinner. I had to keep raising the temperature to get the same results and I’ve never been a good guesser.
I’m doing my best to avoid politics this week. It all gets a bit depressing. I wish I could stop caring about things. I’m sure life would be simpler if I lived with my head in the sand.
I’m currently plagued with thoughts that, perhaps, I’m just toying with the thought of being a writer rather than actually being one. I mean, I know a number of writers and they’re all super busy with it, all the time. Several of them churn out two or three books a year. I take over 4 years to get one done … and I seem to be slowing down! The spark plugs in my oomph cylinders just aren’t arcing like they should. I’m not sparking, Jan!
I’m not sure whether to blame the drugs I’m on; my physical condition and my mental health (lately, I’m struggling a bit with the knowledge that I’m living with a disease that threatens my mortality, and constant pain really does wear a person down), or whether I’m just a self-indulgent layabout with dreams of grandeur. It’s probably just that life’s roller coaster is currently down in one of those swoopy troughs in between the hills.
Maybe a new oven, and a decent dinner for a change, is all that I need.