I belong curled up in a corner under a warm blanket with a cup of hot coffee. And a book. And I promise I’ll even pretend to read it.
I’m on the short end of my patience, and it isn’t even Thanksgiving, yet.
It’s been the kind of year where I’m going to be grateful for Waffle House and hot coffee, and warm socks. I’m exhausted.
I’m trying to think what the best break would be, and all I keep coming up with is sleep. Next year has to be better.
If it’s not, I’m going to break into my friend’s electronics-y workshop-y basement, and see how long I can stay there before I wear out my welcome, and my wealth of things I *could* tell his mother. Maybe not forever, but definitely long enough to build a kinetic sculpture with no practical purpose.