Drink: Sparkly Garbage
I have this to say about Don Quixote: Shhh.
It's the dog days, and I seem to have embarked, pun oh-so-shamelessly intened, on the worst kind of wallow. I got back from vacation on Saturday. I did quite a bit of work on Sunday, not much work on Monday, a pittance on Tuesday, and absolutely nothing today in a slow deceleration that reminds me, alarmingly, of that film montage in Up in which a couple of lovebirds go from bounding up the hill to picnic to staggering up the hill to die.
I'm not dying, but I'm sure as heck not doing much of anything else, either.
I'm supposed to be working right now: three days of slog at a job that relieves me, during the normal course of events, of the time and energy necessary for penning the next great American novel or manuscripts on spec or invitations to fabulous parties or my signature on credit card receipts for stuff like actual chairs.
Instead, I don't know if I'll have that particular job (my company's contract with the system is out for bid) or if I'll be scrambling to find something else. I can't even scramble just yet- still waiting on a solid answer either way. I'm finally in possession of the the time to relax, to loll expansively toward ALL THOSE THINGS I'VE BEEN MEANING TO GET TO, only I'm not getting to any of them. Even leisure has palled: I should socialize, get out of the house, but....meh.
Cue self-loathing. And more wallowing.
It's worth knowing that you require, in the ointment of your leisure hours, the fly of work. It's also kind of gross.