but I’m going to turn on The X-files on netflix and make salad & do the dishes. Maybe there will still be inspiration after that.
I don’t like to admit it but sometimes I really wish I had a roommate or at least a cat. Two fishbowls & a crabitat aren’t quite cutting it. When I felt like this in Smith I would go for a drive (alone or not) or go to my river or go to the cat room at the animal shelter.
Or I would write. Why aren’t I writing? What am I filling these books with?
