My joy at leaving work early, getting lost in the fog trying to find an Office Depot and failing, wandering too long at a Hallmark store than a discount store, where I was unable to choose three pillar candles to set in a housewarming gift, picking up pies M. had ordered from a local bakery and ultimately lying on the couch, is glorious. For hours on end, I have done nada, fuckall, nothing, and I am digging it mightily.

My goal for the weekend is a little fancy cooking for two tomorrow and that’s about it. We didn’t even buy a turkey. Nope, Cornish game hens and ham for us. And, pie. One each.

I want to maybe write, maybe hike. (The ocean is less than a mile in one direction from our place, I’m thinking “west,” the mountains are about a mile and a half in the other direction, could be east.) Maybe we’ll explore our new town apart from the wilderness, including it’s 1/4 mile long pier. Maybe I’ll just obsess on the hellish goings on in India, especially since I know folks who have stayed at those hotels, whilst carrying western passports.

I did slice the tip of my middle right finger off while searching through a bag full of toiletries for dental floss. Damn disposable razor, how’d that get in there? Anyway, without my precious full layers of epidermis, writing stings like hell. What’s that I hear? Another excuse for doing NOTHING.

And it is for the absence of anything that I must do for which I am grateful.

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