I’m sitting here on a Thursday morning (soon to be afternoon) and I’m just wondering what to do with myself. It’s easy to become addled, isn’t it? No work today so the world (or nearby vicinity, same difference) is my oyster!
Except I have some clothes to put away.
Dishes to do.
Should really do some exercise (managed to do it TWO, count em, TWO days in a row!)
Need to make a phone call about getting a new internet provider.
And I got to pick up my son soon.
So yeah, there’s a lot I could do with my day off. Could easily squeeze a book in there or some lite socialising, but I never have been good with dealing with chores. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll get this stuff done, but in the must fuck-ward way possible.
Like, I’ll get the dishes done and should rightly just power through on to whatever is next so I could award myself some sofa time, but I won’t. I’ll groan inwardly, find something trivial to do or distract myself with something that is fun, but just not the fun I’m looking for right now. And typing it here, I can see that is just plain mad, or if your reading this from the 1900’s era UK, bonkers!
There is fun I want to do, but I haven’t done enough with my day to enjoy that fun guilt-free, so rather than just get on with the chores or even treat meself to a bit of the fun I want, I’ll just make do with some other fun. Why? Because with the “lesser” fun, I won’t feel guilty.
Guilty about fun.
The fun that I want is to read a book sans distractions. Just me, some bedsheets, me lamp (curtains closed. When reading alone, the curtains are always closed.) and a book! Sounds like heaven doesn’t it?
And yet, here I am.