I have a long day and I won’t get home until late. At some point, I have to go pick up my prescriptions. I am bummed because I forgot my pills and, if I don’t take them with dinner, I feel shitty when I take them without food.
Just now.
I mean, just fucking now, four hours into my day, I realize–I have to go pick up my prescriptions. I just take pills from the new bottle with dinner.
Ta da.
They’re predicting the kind of weather tomorrow into Thursday that makes me concerned I’ll be sitting here on my couch Thursday and Friday. Maybe I’ll get ambitious and clean the kitchen, which the Butcher informs me is not part of the dishwashing duties. This comes as a great shock, because, since he’s my brother, I grew up in the same house as him and hung out with his grandparents and I can assure you that we are at least the third generation of people who clean up the kitchen as we do the dishes.
Or at least, we were when I was doing the dishes.
It always makes me feel like a dumbass when I think about how chores happen in our house, because the Butcher could live in a junkyard and be fine. They always advise that roommate (or spouse) harmony comes from respecting the level of filth the other person in the house is willing to live with and, if you need it to be cleaner than that, doing it yourself.
They never explain how to keep from being the only person who cleans in that scenario.
And I’m not an incredibly clean person. I just have standards like “Maybe we shouldn’t just leave the garbage the dog took out of the can on the floor.”
Anyway, I’ve gotten off track because the thought of being here, trapped in this house again, is setting me on edge.
What I came here to say is I think I want to do it–write a ghost story. I mean, I’m old and I’m apparently not getting any more successful as a writer. I want to have written something genuinely scary and unsettling. So, I think I better do it.
Tiny Cat Pants 