Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Why there's no (real) post today

Some days…the writing…it just doesn't come.

I woke up at my (new) normal time and started my fire and booted up my iPad…and it just didn't come. I stared at the blank white page, cursor blinking at me. It's got a frustrating sense of expectation, that cursor. Write. Write. Write. Write.

For some reason, I couldn't get my brain engaged. Could not think of a topic on which to write. So I wrote some crappy drivel that I immediately knew would never get posted here. Because I care about you, internet reader, and I don't want to waste your time on words that mean nothing.

Which is pretty much what I'm doing right now. Sigh.

I closed the document after 15 minutes of fruitless typing and went back to bed to snuggle with a warm, sleepy Zo. That was a much better spend of that last 15 minutes of time, in my estimation. I will rise again tomorrow and tackle it again, or maybe I'll get a chance to write tonight. We will see.

This morning's lame attempt at writing left me sour and pissy. Nearly every driver on my short commute in today hacked me off. You there, asshole in the Jeep Patriot, way to use that turn lane to speed ahead of me and cut me off. And awesome job romping on the gas at every light, only to have me putter up right behind you at the next red light. Way to go, lady in the mini-van who cut the corner in the drop-off lane at school in order to get in front of me. Did it mean that much to you to try to get out of the lot one car earlier? Sorry it didn't work out for you, since you ended up waiting in the line to turn left while I coasted down the hill past you and turned right without hitting the brakes. Even my Starbucks this morning conspired against me. Every damn person in West County was waiting in line ahead of me.

Although I did get something out of it: the most beautiful man I've ever seen was waiting in line ahead of me. And by beautiful I mean just that: beautiful. Not handsome, not hot, but beautiful like traditionally how women are described. He has a delicacy, a feminine quality. I was fascinated by him. White hair tops a much younger face with dark eyebrows. Thick, curly lashes give the impression of eyeliner. Refined features. It didn't hurt that his hair looks styled, but effortlessly styled, like he rolled out of bed looking like that, lucky bastard. He is tall, much taller than his wife; he towers over their two small children. He's like a suburban rock star. I was intrigued, because I rarely see beautiful men.

I don't think I could be with a man who is prettier than I. I love my man just the way he is: manly. Rugged and scruffy when he lets his beard grow out. Lean and athletic and strong. Handsome and hot. A man's man. A guy who spends less time doing his hair in the morning than I.

Just a few observations from my morning. Hey, look at that, I ended up writing here anyway.


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