Day five of my mini-blogging marathon, all month long, baby.
Up late last night, 4:00am. Stupid fireworks. Up at 9:30. Try to write. Wet hair. Hungry/tired/blahblahblah. Can’t find motorcycle boots. Depeche Mode. Convertable top down. “It’s 90 degrees out, why are you wearing that knit hat? (See previous remark.) Teach yoga. Take bad selfies in “super soldier” pose. So fucking tired. Come home to husband. World Cup—don’t care. Make joke about boobs and “world cups.” Write, write, write like a hellcat. Reminder: it ain’t gonna write itself. Chow down. Disco nap. Spill ice cream down shirt. Get ready for night job. My phone rang exactly once today. Black nail polish looking like a seven year old applied it. Fuck it. Reservations, Palm Springs. Can’t wait to eat pink licorice by the pool.