Ah, the weekend... a chance to get groceries and unpack groceries and clean the fridge and clean the kitchen and clean the house and watch Oona go about the business of deliberately, incrementally, so carefully trashing the place. The apron only adds insult to injury.
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Feeling trashed myself: I'm beat. I need a break. I never thought I'd say this, but I'm actually looking forward to December, and the way it all goes sideways in the middle, so I can just not do anything for a few weeks. Maybe think a little. But not too hard. My brain has soft spots.
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The other night I took into writing group a story that was such unadulterated nonsense that I announced as much after reading it out loud. That was nonsense, I said, making everyone uncomfortable. So it was almost fun. And now it can sit in a drawer until I can whirl it into some kind of crumbly cake, or at least Camus it.
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