Readying for bed. Failed on two aims, but the others met, I believe.
Waking early tomorrow for leads group… prepped what I’m to say.
More and more frustrated by this covid shit, I have to be honest.
One more sip of wine…. Yeah, I know. But it’s a Westwood, and I figure not TV tonight, and after this entry bed. Not that it’s an excuse, but here I am… thinking over wine. Wine is much too much a part of the writer’s life. It’s my subject, my beat, my essay’d consistency, extending into other efforts like the AE sea.
Nightcap, yogurt. Strawberry. Yes, I took one of the kids’ snacks. They owe me, I reason. And I laugh but then think of all they’ve done for me and my story. Don’t I owe them?
Hoping to wake just a bit after 5. Get writing in before the leads meeting.
10:08…. 10:15. Yogurt done, nearly. Me tiring.
Think I’ll have another yogurt. Then lay down. shit, I have laundry going. How much time is left. Do I want to know?
10:20… shit. Just opened second yogurt. Have to eat it quick. Laundry still in its round-and-round.
More tired. Going to call it, the night and day and what I’ve done in this first of the month that’s supposed to irrevocably define Mike Madigan.
Not going to finish this second cup. Oh well, he says to himself.