L'esprit de l'escalier

It's all about the timing.

Location: Memphis, Tennessee, United States

I'd rather be somewhere else most of the time and I'm a huge practitioner of staircase wit.



So, I posted pictures in my last two entries and now they're not showing. Wtf? Maybe it's a blogspot thing, I s'pose we'll have to wait and see.

I should be working on my Letter of Intent right now. I'm applying for this job in Memphis that I don't necessarily want and don't really qualify for, so I'm not very motivated to get this fucking letter written. I don't want it to be crappy, though, so I'm putting it off a bit, but I really should just get it done and quit worrying about it, as I'm just procrastinating like I do.

In college, and I know this isn't unique to me, but I would wait until the L A S T possible minute to do an assignment. I was one of those people who thought she worked best under pressure. When I started writing short stories and shit, though, i realized how untrue that really was. I wish I could just sit down and some great piece of fiction would glide right out of me (does that make you think about tampons? I'm sorry). That's not the way it works for me, though. Turns out I have to work really hard to make something come out just right. I write and I rewrite and I polish and I rewrite some more, and while I was in school, I actually enjoyed the process almost more than the original act. In an effort to bring myself out of that, since I'm not really writing any fiction right now, I'm writing here. But it's not working. I don't look forward to writing in my blog as much as I wish I did. I read these other blogs, and I'm so inspired and impressed with all these women who have so much to say. Why do they have so much to say and I sit down and have so little? I do things, I think about things. I'm always thinking about something, in fact, so why is it when I sit down to tell a story, nothing comes out? Nothing.

Okay, that's a lie. Here's what comes out:

. Lately at work I've been having lunch with a coworker in a seperate room from everyone else. He's funny and I don't have to listen to all the bitching the rest of my bitchy coworkers do.

. The breakroom's being remodeled and the ice-machine spits out too much ice.

. There's a new guy who sits next to me now that I like okay, and everytime he says "WTF?" or "Stoopid!" I just crack up because he's all quiet and mild-mannered and aggressive language coming out all soft-spoken is funny.

. There's a basket of clean clothes that I still haven't put away from Sunday in my living room.

. My husband didn't come home from work last night until 4am. I was so worried I thought I might get sick, and I couldn't sleep until I saw that he was okay.

I'm just so fucking bored with myself I don't know where to begin! These are the things I think about when I sit down to write. Who wants to hear this shit? Obviously no one, but I don't know really how to change that. I'm not sure I care, to tell the truth.


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