I blame the heat for my general lack of activity. I could also blame my sister for giving me this computerized jigsaw-puzzle game called "Pandora's Box" (which I don't recommend—it's not so much fun as it is time-consuming.) But it's so fucking hot that I just can't seem to get up the urge to do anything. That, I suppose, and the fact that sometimes I have no friends. There are times in my life when there just isn't anyone to hang out with. These times happen, generally, right after I finish a show. The cause of these lulls in friendship is the fact that I have been busy every single weeknight for six weeks and have had no time for any of my posse. Now, of course, I have every single weeknight free and not a soul who thinks about spending that time with me.
Normally, this, too, would be okay. I could go to the movies or watch a DVD from my lovely Netflix subscription or read a book or work on my new show. But I don't feel the urge to do any of these things. I am blaming the heat. I should also blame, I think, my appearance. I am hating it these days. I'm getting fatter and I like very few of my clothes, and all I want to do is eat ice cream. That's the heat's fault too! Maybe it's that Shaquille O'Neal has defected to the Miami Heat.
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I bought curtains. The sun stayed quietly outside my room until precisely 8:00a this morning, when I got up with very little ceremony, walked over to my window, and pulled back the heavy drapes guarding me from the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind waiting outdoors. Except that my mind isn't spotless.
Steve isn't at work yet today if you haven't already guessed that. AND he has a dentist appointment at 11:00a, so I know that when he does come in, he's going to have to run right out again. He might even stay away until the afternoon. God Bless America.
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