They want me to enter a title

But it was hard enough writing this shitty blog so I won't. Take that "Substack"

On Wednesdays I do one of two things (I’m pro-choice,) I write about writing or I share writing that I have written that is “real writing.” Write on. (x6) ( I guess I can also write about not writing and if I end up doing that more than writing about writing it raises some questions.)

I was going to skip today.

Today the teeter totter of writing v. moping is tilted towards the “moping” side. Until a friend from Vermont sent me a text just when I needed it:

I am enjoying your writings. You make me laugh and have made me sad but usually there is a smile on my face because of your blunt honesty. Carry on friend.

Why was I going to skip? There are some reasons.I am a bit “real” sick (sinus shit) a bit self inflicted sick (Mounjaro shot yesterday.) A bit strepressed (stressed and depressed, the state one needs to be in to create such a word.) The thing about being strepressed is there is no easy test for this strep. And no pills to fix it in one day.

My browser has about 18 Redfin tabs open and its not for pleasure viewing. Its because we are sorta actually considering moving. This is the first time I have approached an impending move without being manic and it is much less fun. Because of my partial gag order I can’t give all of the reasons for a potential relocation but I’m sure you can all guess that the third shooting is one of those reasons. There are more though. None of which can be called happy.

Not sure if life circumstances or biochemistry or their offspring brought on my fear of approaching my laptop or if it really matters but here it is. Every one of you that writes knows this feeling. Like the actual laptop has a forcefield keeping you away and breaching it will cause pain. Its radiation is so broad that I have been forced to avoid the whole area around the lap top. I trudged down the stairs because the dog and I both need our pills but when I got to the bottom my velocity increased I had to jump the bottom two and run past the office door so the laptop didn’t burn me from my desk. You writers know about this? It’s not just me, right?

The rest of you might feel it from laundry piles, or returning a certain email, or uploading your W-2s. There is this black suck hole surrounded by an scoarching pain area. How can I not spell scoarching? Why is writing that sentence easier than looking up how to spell it? Why does Substack tell me I am wrong about how to spell a word by giving it red dots but then NOT allowing me to click on it to learn. Why doesn’t Substack know its own name? Maybe substack is having a worse day than me.

Now Alf is big enough so his butt covers the ENTIRE keyboard making it even more difficult to write. Also RIP that particular computer which drowned in cat water about 2 weeks after this photo. No. You do not see a mug of hot liquid balanced on the unstable surface of an ottoman.

I have the solution to all of this. Or at least the black sucking hole forcefield bit. Substack needs to get its shit together on its own. The solution? You know it already. Just go to the laptop, laundry, email, taxes. Letting it sit never helps. Doing it is never as bad as it feels. Sometimes getting it done is good enough.

And if you have high standards and want things to be not just done but done well consider this very blog post. Lower your standards. Don’t sort the white clothes from the colored clothes. Send the email. Then if you are lucky like me you will never have to look at that exact pile of laundry, respond to that email or read this particular post EVER AGAIN.

If anyone in the Boulder area wants to swap houses with us for two years I am open to that idea. And I would throw in this laptop to sweeten the deal. And the little dog too.

I can’t think of a comment prompt so write whatever you want. Or don’t if your laptop is radioactive.