Well this morning, i spent an embarrassingly long time debating whether to start a Patreon or Ko-fi or something, and i still haven't come to any conclusions except for that maybe my anxiety meds aren't very effective.
Last week an anvil of a thought dropped on me–heavy, sudden, impossible. "What if I wrote about Marianne?" I wondered out of absolutely nowhere. And just now, I lost an hour plodding through why I should or shouldn't write about Marianne before I realized i didn't want to share all those reasons with y'all, and encouraging responses would only make the decision more difficult. So maybe I'll work up to giving it a shot and seeing how that feels... But i'm not there yet.
I don't want to go into work on Friday but it'll be nice to have the extra green beans. My birthday is Sunday and I don't want to see anyone. Or I've convinced myself that I don't want to because I don't know how we'd do it safely and ethically. I'm having weird feelings remembering a road trip I was on exactly 10 years ago.
Now I'm hungry and writing is a great way to procrastinate cooking.
Just kidding, trying to write while hungry is a great way to get absolutely nothing done.
I'm overthinking this. It's sorta funny how suddenly there's nothing to say, as soon as the prompt is as simple as "say anything."
Honestly I'm still stuck on reliving that road trip. It's...trippy. How Tom and I were so close, two Aquariuses at home in our season even as we bumbled across the country. We drank too much and became nocturnal, but that only heightened our bond, its magic. It's still crushing, how easily we let that bubble burst.
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