I just want to sit and eat cookies. And watch movies. And play games. I’m tired. I am sad because of David Bowie and Alan Rickman–two great talents in one week. I can’t help but thinking, boy a lot of celebs who are 69 years old are probably a little nervous right now…seems to be this week’s ‘you’re done’ age. Then I think that’s a horrible thing to think, but my mind went there anyway.
I’ll be 55 this Sunday. Most people never guess it, which is just fine by me. The number itself isn’t so bothersome to me, but the feeling of ‘I have so much to write, stories to tell…’ gets more pressing every year. I have to make my peace with the concept that I’ll probably never get to tell half the stories I want to. (No, that is in NO way a hidden comment about my health…just the reality of the way my mind works…if I live to be 90, I’ll still probably be going “BUT I HAVE ANOTHER IDEA”…).
Feeling a bit melancholy. And I hate waiting. I’m waiting on several things that could mean quite a turn in my life–good if they pan out–but there’s nothing I can do to hurry them along. And we’re waiting on recruiters to get back to Sam about jobs. And it feels like everywhere I turn it’s “Hurry up and wait”…I am not a patient person, Universe! I do not deal well with impediments to my progress!
Blah blah blah…I am whiny, today, peeps. I’ll try to be less whiny next time. I can’t promise, but for now…it’s back to work on the book that will not end but needs to now/soon/two weeks ago.
Here’s a kitty picture because…cats.