It’s three am, I’m wracked with insomnia, I’m reading a book that’s boring enough to depress me, but not boring enough to put me to sleep. My freshly-washed hair is doing some coarse cave-woman thing that I can’t really get behind. My room is messy, I need to take out the kitchen trash, and pick up my laundry from the basement. My new sewing machine is sitting on my table mouldering because I’m back to the crazy 16-hour work days, and I have school applications I really need to get cracking on. Also, I need to find a job in a sector I actually envision myself working in, as I’m beginning to suspect the Insta-Millionaire fairy won’t be paying a visit my way anytime soon, and I recently had a nightmare about being an 80 year old paralegal. Horror! There are all these cute knitting patterns I want to play with, but I am working on the Enormous and Beautiful Crochet Blanket of Doom. I hurt my butt by sitting on it funny this weekend. My email refuses to answer itself. My boyfriend lives in Boston, which is really very selfish of him on nights like these. And all my dearest friends live in other cities. I played with a beautiful chestnut Lab today, and now I really miss my pets.
All totally dealable, but the point is that I want to be somewhere else right now. Namely, Paris. With the added bonus of the fact that one of my best friends moved there. I’m just going to focus on this photo and will it to lull me to sleep so I can stop being so gosh-durn whiny.