An alpaca has made a break for it, and I'm about to toss the heroine down a well, and I still can't put a word next to another one. I have, however, tidied four or five separate areas of the house.
I have a romantic image of myself, loading up the car and driving down the coast, laptop and border collie at my side, sitting at some cafe near Pacifica or Ocean Beach (such a creative name, I always think), pounding out my novelishious words, but in reality if I actually stand up and make that happen, I will end up sidetracked by the flea treatment I need to go buy for the wee dog who kept me up ALL NIGHT with the scratching and cat food run (different stop, sadly) I have to make today if I want my cats to continue living with me. I should also go to the bank and order a new ATM card, since mine is all scratched up and won't work, and there are a couple other errands that should get done, and I know myself too well. I will tell myself I'm going out "to write" and I'll end up being hyper-productive in errand-running just to avoid that whole writing part. Might as well stay home.
Good god. 217 words, wasted on angst.