I’m supposed to be getting ready for work. I don’t want to. You can't make me.
What I am doing is looking at some great new blogs. They are linked on my site. Bad Guitar and Haiku Ambulance.
I am thinking how sad it is that I can’t figure out how to get paid to sit home naked, or in my red robe on chilly days, and swing in my hammock listening to white-throated sparrows, juncos and goldfinches trilling, chirping and per-chick-a reeing away all morning. Or reading. Me, not the birds (but who knows what they do in the privacy of their own branches.)
Or making arty things or napping.
But I can’t figure out how to get paid to do those things and so I will haul myself out of this 1940s swivel, desk chair for which I paid 7 dollars and get dressed. And go to work. And listen to stories about 2 month old babies being literally snatched out of mother’s arms and are now being held hostage; being strangled and waking up in the ER; or raped unconcious by your own boyfriend and how the DA can’t win the cases or it’s not against the law anyway.
I will think about and mime, several times during the day, shoving a pencil into my left temple until it comes out the other side. I will not do it. I will go home and eat ice cream for dinner and wonder why I am over weight.
I will think about developing heathier coping strategies. I will wish I’d written “If I had a Rocket Launcher” but be glad that Bruce Cockburn did.
Someone had to.