I have 4,396 blank journals. I think it’s a borderline sickness. I love buying them. I love looking for pretty ones. And I get them all with the best of intentions. I don’t honestly mean to write on the first page or two and then put it aside for the next new, pretty book.
I’m pretty sure that if I wrote an average of 2-3 pages a day, steadily, it would take me about 3 years to get through all the journals I currently have. It’s crazy. I would love to donate them (sans my initial efforts, of course) but I don’t know who would take them.
My house was broken into yesterday. The front door had been kicked in. What did they take? Abso-frickin-lutely NOTHING. It’s very odd. My laptop was right there. My emerald ring was right there. My Ambien was right there. F*ckers.
The stranger part of this is that I live on a crazy-busy (for this area) corner, with an average of 100-500 cars/hour going by and they did it IN BROAD DAYLIGHT!!! Whoever did it has a huge set, let me tell you. AND, one of my back windows was open to give the cats some air. Burglers are stupid.
Also? Despite having watched 10,000 hours of crime shows? I touched everything before I called the police. Good going, MaM! *eye roll*
And? Finger print dust makes a crazy mess.
Oh, well, it could have been so much worse. Right?
I am down to 40 days before the Tri. I am in no way, shape, or form “ready” for it. But I’m going to go, and have fun. And hopefully change my life.
I *really* want a new job. I have finally reached the decision that I am not enjoying what I am doing. However, I don’t want to just jump to some other random job. I don’t want to feel this way again in 6 months. I want to find something that excites me.
Now. To just figure out what that is.
Thank you, Debra.