We shall no longer be starting these posts with an interjection. Well, at least not until tomorrow, maybe. Sometimes being here, even though I am more or less talking to myself, feels conversational. Casual. After 4 years, one would maybe think I would stop needing to feel like I should turn up wearing the Good Fairy’s pink dress from Wizard of Oz. That level of ostentation is appealing when you’re standing still, and a little girl (or if you’re me and you would wear such a get-up to the grocery store if you could get your hands on one).
As for today’s attire, I thought they fixed the boiler here, so in lieu of a giant hoop-skirted ballgown, I went with tights and a skirt and a thin slip of black cotton to wear over a sleeveless blouse. They do not appear to have fixed the boiler. Right now, I could use a bit of a sweater/sweatpants/pelt of a Yeti combination.
Another good, fine day. The window behind me reflects on the glass panel in front of me so I can see the treetops without having to turn around. My bamboo hasn’t died yet, I have artwork all around me including a couple postcards I bought in Italy. There is some sort of Audubon-style image of a pheasant hung up behind me, too, which I don’t quite consider art, but it doesn’t reflect so it’s not so much of a bother. I look around and click between paragraphs, or even between sentences, to refresh my email, but it’s rare anything comes through. My boss is out today as well, so I feel once again like a layabout, but I’m bored of talking about it as I’m sure anyone reading is bored, so let’s just pretend we’re 6 months from now when I know what needs doing and I’m doing it like some sort of genius.
Thursday is writers’ group and I have to sort out how I feel about that now that it isn’t so convenient to access. Assuming we can just leave work, there’s enough time for me to get home and then drive myself down to the city where I used to work, but all of this is irritating me when it should be exciting and good. One more task, one more check-off list to maintain. I don’t want to slip down into the dark places I’ve been before, not for more than a look-see. The agoraphobic, insensible, unheroic place where Mildred rules and if we begin, we begin to fail. All the danger lives there, so that’s where we must take the most care. It’s happening anyway, so I don’t even know why I bother with the hand-wringing.
I should write these at home. I really should. The soul-baring does tend to go better in private places, but tonight, I get to start Dragon Age: Inquisition properly. This is as necessary as a junkie’s fix. A frantic tussle with my graphics card drivers last night left me a bit overclocked when I went to finally start the game and try and futz around with my Inquisitor’s face. She ended up okay, but I definitely want to try again with a little bit less anxious desire to PLAY THIS GAME pressing down on my temples.
Is this 500 words yet?