This is an insipid blog post. It's one of those contents-of-my-cereal-bowl posts that should have been left on the pages of my journal. If I had been keeping up with my journal. Which I haven't.
I'm in Canmore. And I'm feeling guilty. An annoying, vague-yet-pervasive mist of guilt twisting in my guts. Things I haven't done and should have. Things I forgot to do and am paying for. Things I know I need to do, but am paralyzed and somehow unable.
Things like laundry, VISA bills, returning phone calls. Things that every self-sufficient grown-up in the world has to do and seems to be able to do without too much trouble. Seriously, am I the only person in the world who dreads their own voicemail? For whom online banking is something that requires mental preparation and emotional fortitude in the form of six casual shots of rye?
Maybe it's this house. It has a high-powered internal magnet that sucks out my will to leave the house and function in the world. Maybe it was watching a Charlie Kaufman film before noon. Maybe this is all detox symptoms or manifestations of fear about tomorrow's test. Maybe I just need coffee.
Probably, what I really need to do is shut up and write. Okay. I'll do that.
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