I have good intentions of posting on here all the time but can never think of what to write. Sister Morgan is probably rolling her eyes and saying, "pffshh, well duh," to her computer as she reads that. It's probably the oldest excuse on the planet for writers. I can recall specific instances when I used it in 2nd grade, but I used it even before that, I'm sure.
Week days roll by one after another. (Well, that's stupid. How else would they roll by, two and three at time? I'm trying to say that week days all seem the same and pass without event) At best I wake up willing to get out of bed and put on my steel-toed sneakers and greasy, dusty shorts and shirt I wear all week without washing. Sometimes a warehouse colleague will say something I can laugh about with my family when I get home (the latest, compliments of Bill: "...of course I can count! I've been countin' since I was six!" Impressive). At worst I go to bed late, convince myself from 5:45 to 5:50am that I won't quit my job and will go in to work, run from my car to the timeclock to punch in by 6:30, try not to work too quickly until lunch at 11:00, forget my plight for a moment at 3:30 while eating a three pack of vanilla Zingers from the gas station on my way home, and then think about doing something productive with my time from 4:00 until I go to bed at 9:30. Refrain.
No, days don't always, or even usually go that miserably. Mostly I like my job, kinda. But time has felt slow the past week with little on the horizon to focus on. It's like the point in a roadtrip when you're tired of your music, conversation has lapsed, you've eaten too many Swedish fish, and you're still too far from your destination to anticipate reaching it. Blah.
Oh well. I'll write again next week when I'll probably be happier. I hope everyone is well, I love reading your posts.