Death. I'm so put out. I wanted to keep the "morning" thing going. For two weeks in London, I was in the habit of going to bed early and getting up typically at about six. I loved that. I have never been a morning person, but that kind of habit, once developed, was heaven. I had the most quiet and uplifting hours of the day all to myself.
Now, this morning, I'm up early for work (we open at six), and I feel like I've been shot in the head at close range. Damn. Maybe I just need another week or two of visiting places that all close at five to get myself back into the divine routine. I really hate that "The Golden Girls" doesn't come on until 11. I'm sure that doesn't encourage my early bedtime much.
I'm trying to find a comfortable sleeping position in these office chairs. There's not really anything to support the head, so I find it's more comfortable to sit crooked in the chair and just let all my limbs hang dead over the side. It works, until someone comes in and I actually do look like I've been shot in the head at close range.
I bought a journal yesterday. A small one with lovely flourishes and ornamentation. I can't stand that I spent $15.95 on a blank book when I can make such beautiful ones myself. But I just won't write in my own. I've tried it. I can bookbind so beautifully--this, I know. But writing in a book I've made myself has just about as much appeal as eating a meal that you've made yourself; someone else's always tastes better.
Half of the reason my trip was so lovely was because I wrote everything. I didn't have to keep some enigmatic collection of feelings and thoughts in my head. I got to make them real by writing them. Aside from its utility, I don't care for it much. It just takes too long, and my hand can't keep up with my head. But like it or not, it's a cunning little exercise that makes my life better. I can spend $15.95 in a heart beat in order to improve and bring order to my life.
I detest infatuations. They ruin everything. I love a nice, peaceful, uninterrupted life. You really like someone, and it's all turned on its head. Most people like to run with their emotions, feed into their intrigue. Me? I'd just like to get back to my "To Do" list. Passion is so unproductive.