…and some days you don’t. Apparently, I can write every single day for a year if people die, shit goes down, and I have to redo a house; but during a week when I have to work like thirty whole hours and be repeatedly body slammed by a three-year-old who thinks this is like the funniest thing ever? Forget about it. I’m not that busy. I’m not that tired. I’ve even kind of stopped working out because vermin babies have moved into the basement and like hell I’m going to spend half an hour alone down there at five in the morning while some mouse in the corner plans the quickest and most terrifying way to effect my demise. But with the writing? Meh. Notsomuch.
So remember last week? The whole volleyball
fiasco game? I’m (marginally) better at four-square.
Yes. That’s right. I don’t suck quite as badly at a game that seven-year-olds can play with ease.