dog-pee-dog world

i joked today that i cleaned our dog's toilet. i did not write. 'there's other stuff.' there's always other stuff. i could have, i guess. but writing seemed so selfish. it wasn't getting gifts together, wasn't saying hi to my sister. plus, i had come back home with a 30 minute timer on the dog bedding that i'd have to turn around and get to at the laundromat. everything else besides writing seemed so short. moving a piece of furniture 7 feet. clearing the stairs since our cat was now stuck on the ground floor. turning on my pc, sitting, staring at the screen seemed like an eternity. i have perfected the art of making writing take a long time to do nothing. im sure other's have too, so it's not even a rare perfected art. little did i know it'd need a few more minutes. the bedding. it was still a bit damp when i got it home, but i think it's ok. our dog will piss on it anyways. hopefully he'll make it to the weekend. i just washed his bedding on saturday, so at current trends, he'll fall just short.

at lowe's they forgot me, it's ok, i would too. i had purchased some propane and waited and waited and waited outside. i didn't know who to bother after like five or six minutes, so i thought about leaving, even though i spent $21. nobody had come to swap out my tank. nobody would come, right? i started to panic. i must look silly just standing here. it's ok to leave. i leave a lot of things that i can't do. it would have been one more thing. it just wasn't the night. next time, i'd have to buy a new tank and replace one. it'd be like $70, plus the $21 wasted earlier. $90 anxiety. i guess that's the price we pay.

write a little write a lot

ten minutes every day is 70 minutes a week. that's a lot. that's more than an hour in one day. but if you miss a day then it's 20 minutes on one day. miss two and it's 30. and you will miss days. you have to. you can't write every single day. who can? but you can not write. you can go days or weeks without writing. that's easy. and then it's inertia, habit, discontent, whatever. just ten minutes. fifteen seems so aggressive but that really adds up, 105 minutes a week, almost two hours. im writing now. it's my obligation. i want to be a writer, right? i want to do this. i can't write stories anymore because i said what i wanted to. i can't write blog posts anymore because i said what i wanted to. the ideas don't really just come into my head. all my stories ended up the same after a while, after avoiding that for so long. maybe 2020 will be the year all my blog posts are the same, if they aren't already. i thought about writing something really off the wall to see what happened. i've never written fantasy before. it seemed like a good idea. then i looked at this screen and nothing happened, and i logged into blogger, and this did. maybe i'll come back to it. just like i come back to so many things. i don't come back to them.

it's ok, right? i've written 3 blog posts in the last week. they're all sitting in my drafts, saved, waiting for me to think they're good to go, waiting to finish them, peppered with a few notes each of what i'd like to add, ready to eventually sink down the queue list. that's assuming i write more. maybe now they'll sit there at the top, nothing else to replace them, unpublished, forgotten, fading away. now that's a high school existentialist's ending if i ever knew one.