Restlessness has plagued me for the last couple of days. When I suggested to my friend that we hit the mall and look longingly at the myriad things we’re too broke to buy, she came back with, “Idle dog f*ck sheep.” – which I took as her way of saying no. I just love her and her fancy talk.
I’m not great at finding ways to occupy myself. My constant daydreaming could be productive if it helped me with my writing, but imaginary conversations with Colin Farrell probably won’t get me on the New York Times Best Seller list. Unless… *taps chin in thought*
And that’s where part of my problem lies. I just want to focus on writing. Practice makes perfect, don’t you know. But there are days when nothing comes, and the outside world feels like a distraction that needs to be swatted away like a pesky fly.
Generally a dry spell like this would stress and depress, but I’m pretty sure my predicament will be resolved soon enough. I discovered a giant one-armed mutant crab creeping around outside my window, and it has a murderous look in its beady little eyes. If it doesn’t manage to snap my head off with its massive pincer, at least I’ll have an experience to write about.
There’s a clicking upon the tile floor.
I think it’s getting closer.
How could it get inside already??
It just crossed the threshold into my room.