Friday’s Nothing Special When You Work From Home

It’s only 10:30 at night, but it feels like midnight. I should be working on my story for the contest at, but instead I’m watching Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason on pay-per-view.

It’s been a bad month. I’ve been moody and cranky and hormonal since the month turned, practically, and while I keep starting stories and articles, I can’t finish them. I want to write, but I keep finding things that distract me from it, because I’m afraid of going to deep into memories and feelings best left buried.

Or maybe they’re not BEST left buried, and I’m just too cowardly to write from a place that deep.

I’ve never been one to over-use the word “fuck,” but lately, it’s been cathartic. Actually, ancient Violent Femmes songs have also been cathartic. And so has cleaning. And I HATE cleaning.

I need a mentor, or something.
Imaginary muses just aren’t enough.

And it may be Friday, but when you work from home, Friday’s just another day.