F it

(to be read in a perfect, unaffected Alabama accent)

So I am thinking to myself: self, you have work to do. But as I look into my hazy reflection in the laptop screen (the only mirror I know most of the day), I find that self doesn’t want to.

Self wants to say hello because some days, a bit of word play is all I have. Some days I all I can do is carve the crazy world into letters and marvel at the way things turn out.

So, here I sit, trying to figure how I’ll get everything done before the Black Crows concert that I’m going to see tonight, I’m trying to figure just how it is that I have turned my husband into a domestic god (all that blogging and discussion flipped the cleaning responsibilities in this household), and I’m trying to get a grasp on how another set of holidays are beating at my door: Halloween is looking us in face, my fellow goblins.

Meanwhile, the letters need to be printed, and I’d give a large chunk of my flesh for a good long nap.

I think for a moment about poetry. But that thought runs whimpering into the bushes. This is no time for a luxury like poetry.

Still, the look on the face of the reflection before me says defiantly that time must be taken, that a shout out to my peeps as we move into the weekend is worth a ten minute break.

You are worth it. Hello peeps.

Some days are good days to die. Today is a good day to say hello.

Miss you.