A Pleasant, Unremarkable Day

Yesterday was my 33rd birthday. I woke up and reheated coffee from the day before in the microwave. At 9:30, I took the dog to the groomer's to have a haircut and then I ran errands. I deposited some checks at the bank, paid my internet bill, and then went in for an oil change. I went back home and sanded and painted a section of the wall in which I had put my fist through two weeks prior in a fit of rum-blame rage. Then I went into the basement and loaded up every broken, unused, rotting, and useless piece of subterranean flotsam into my car and took the whole mess to a swap shop located next to a landfill, for the trash-treasurers, like me, to have free range at.

I grabbed two paperbacks, went to have some lunch, and pick up the dog. We then came back to the house, and I put another coat of paint on the wall, and then we took a nap. After waking up, I had some ice coffee and reheated some mac-n-cheese for dinner. Then I grabbed a book I've been meaning to read, poured myself a glass of wine, and lounged on the couch. For a brief moment in the course of the evening, I considered going out. I wondered if I could find a slice of rum cake anywhere. I gave up on starting a new book, and watched a movie and a half instead. At 12:03 this morning, I went to bed.

By all accounts, it was not a blog-worthy day. I'm 33, overweight, and soon to be unemployed. I'm suffering from writer's block, ennui, and an exposed root in one of my lower teeth. My dreams have been deferred by other dreams and, although I remain stationary, I'm lost. I've got too much stuff and not enough money. I have holes in my shoes and in my teeth. And, sadly, the only thing I've had published is this blog. And too infrequently at that.