Sunday morning. I went to bed around 9pm last night and am just getting out of bed now, about 11 hours later. I think Rachel's mad at me, I can't tell. She's gone, out walking the dog and the boy with her grandpa.
I've had nothing to report for days. I want to write about my bug bites, or the continued saga of the crazy neighbors, or strategies to get in and out of SF on a Friday night. But my mind is shooting blanks. Is that right? Drawing blanks, maybe. That makes more sense. My mind can't seem to impregnate the page. My computer has fertility issues this morning.
I missed the gym yesterday, must go today. I am a fanatic at all things. If I can not achieve fanaticism then I am hardly able to maintain interest. It is a sickness of the infertile mind. If I'm going to the gym then I must go every day. If one day slips through then my mind will start looking for something else to obsess about. I fear that sleep will be my next passion.
I am getting tired just looking at the words.