New Girl

Like the sky that threatened rain, but did not make good on it, my muse is full of empty promises today. I’ve stared at the screen for hours, but no words have come, even though scenes I want to write keep playing in my head when I have no pen or paper, no keyboard at hand.

I watched six episodes of ER, from early seasons, tivo’d from TNT’s daytime schedule, and am trying to figure out why I only started watching the show this year. Yet another thing to begin collecting on DVD, I suppose.

This morning I drank iced raspberry mocha and ate a warm chocolate-almond croissant and flirted with the wind, letting it move through my unbound hair and whisper around my bare feet, just as it whispers through the trees.

I am bored with all the tea I have.

I brought my laptop upstairs for a project, then never got to the project.

This week, I resent that my job is intruding upon my life. It sucks my writing energy away when I have to decrypt bad handwriting on applications, and make numbers add up to a loan approval.

I haven’t been to the gym, and I miss it, and I’m afraid to go back.

I went to eight elementary schools, two junior high schools and two high schools, and spent far too much of my childhood being the New Girl, and right now, I feel like the New Girl in my own skin.

The best part of my day was sitting on Fuzzy’s lap, making out with him as if we were teenagers in the back of someone else’s car, instead of a married couple with a mortgage and stress. He always smells like sunshine.

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