Tomorrow, the World

I finally managed to trick myself into blogging again.

I've accumulated an awful lot of things to write about, accompanied by a paralyzing combination of resentment (that I get so little time to myself) and guilt (that I haven't been making time for this somehow--you know I really could have if I set my jaw and made it happen). Layered over all of this is a kind of fuzzy, bemused detachment and wordlessness that comes of not writing for so long that I don't actually trust that I have anything to say.

This has been a pretty potent mixture, it turns out, and very effective at keeping my fingers from the keys. But I found the way to make myself post something. I instigated a negotiation with Pete in which I was granted a couple of chunks of hours without childcare duties. This was, of course, not sufficient, since there are a thousand things I'm behind on, a hundred things that urgently need doing (so much so, in fact, that it is a tiny bit tempting to curl up in a motionless ball and do nothing at all, just stare straight ahead and divert my cowardly brain by reading whatever kleenex box or piece of junk mail lies directly in my line of vision). So what I did was this: I made a to-do list, and on it I prioritized cleaning the cat box directly before blogging.

So here I am. I am cheating on my own to-do list. I really, really, really don't feel like cleaning the cat box, so I'm skipping an item and writing a blog entry instead.

This is what passes in my life for being an evil genius.