On most occasions, I don’t mind the wet weather. In fact, I often enjoy it. Thunderstorms, for example, are exciting. Lightning gets me hot. But after seven solid days of this overcast it’s raining, it’s not raining, it’s raining again, oh wait, that’s mist, I think it finally stopped, where’s the sun, no that’s rain again is just starting to piss me off.
It’s too early for winter. Gray skies and not being able to tell the difference between morning and afternoon and evening wear me down. I don’t feel like doing anything. I forget to bring change for the toll road. I drink soda to keep me awake on the drive over to school, which is only 20-30 minutes. Soda I don’t even like. I don’t have a ready smile and a leap of enthusiasm to greet my husband after his long days at work. I don’t have energy to run the errands I need to run. To read the books I need to read, to have the sex I’m pretty sure I want to have.
I went to the gym yesterday, trudged around campus today with five tons of books today, and I’ll probably go to the gym tomorrow, and I’m hoping that forcing myself to use energy I only assume must be there somewhere will help me identify it and put it to better use. That didn’t happen today, as I got little more done than the acquisition of research materials and a bit of glorified scribbling in front of the television. I’m busy plotting some t-shirts. I did write a poem yesterday. I had to find the poetry in the most mundane and tiny details of my daily existence to work it out, but I wrote a poem because I had to turn it in today. Someone needs to be holding me accountable in order for me to keep my ass in gear. I reckon I mentioned something similar yesterday. The thing is that it can’t be me. Especially not after seven constant fucking days of rain.