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What is better than the smell of lilacs? Title: And now for the most boring thing ever. And thus ensues a boring account of the dreams I've had recently regarding toenails, ears, and something I can't remember at the moment. I remembered it yesterday but forgot again. But nevermind about all that. The power of suggestion is powerful indeed, and the lure of wallowing in mud of our own making is strong. Strong but not unconquerable. So instead I will give this some other title and talk about how I'm barely fitting into rooms anymore. I'm barely fitting into rooms right now. There are piles surrounding me - half-finished finances, clean clothes, dirty clothes, shoes, thesis materials, gifts, bags, other things. I'm tired of this right now and so instead of looking at them anymore I'm going to put them away. It's a simple answer to a complicated problem but it's the right answer. If you write and write and write and it turns out that you're writing the same thing over and over and over - what do you do? We create our own patterns, we are responsible for ourselves, and that's it. Stop whining, do your laundry.
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