Do you ever get to that point where you’re stretched out on your bed, shirt folded up so as not to constrict the belly you’ve just stuffed to the brink with pizza, baskets of clean laundry piled at your feet, desk strewn with notebooks and empty cups and a plush alligator? And do you ever find yourself thinking, while in this position, Gee, the most logical thing for me to do right now would be to write a blog post, rather than tend to the hundred little disasters around me? What’s that? You CAN relate? Good.

I completed various boring human tasks this morning such as: getting and oil change, filling up my tires, calling a plumber, and unsuccessfully writing a check 4 times until I got it right. I’m in that typical sweaty, sticky summer mood and am lying down with my laptop propped on my knees, watching The Best of Gilda Radner on Netflix, eating simple carbs, wallowing in the quiet misery of being rich and white.

It was just then when a slight movement caused my aluminum laptop to slide down my thighs and, at full speed, knock me straight in the mouth. All I did at the time was swear and flail, but little did I know: The universe was trying to convey a message to me.

It was saying, “Your mattress is molding into the shape of your body and it’s only a matter of time before small woodland creatures begin nesting in there. You’re not done for the day. Get up and do something.”

Now the laundrysplosion surrounding my gelatinous self is looking like more of an issue, so I should probably stop typing and go tend to that. I understand that this post had zero meaning. I also understand that I broke the commitment of daily blogging on Monday, but one oil change and 4 blog posts later, I’m almost caught up and refuse to be held accountable.

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