All done.

I’m done with a bunch of things. I ate a bunch of broccoli yesterday to attempt to keep my damn kid out of my bed last night. She is adorable, and often I love to have her sleep as she is the most adorable thing in the world. However, I am also a fan of my ‘own’ bed.

But honestly, why my brain would make me think broccoli was a good plan? Sigh. Slept like shit. farty shit. And now I am here, at almost eleven am, exhausted. Yelling at my kid who is 15 now to get out of my room so maybe I can take a nap. He is farty too, or I’m hoping thats the smell there. but I want just one place in the house that is mine, that the messes are mine, that the laundry I launder is just mine. MINE.

I’m all done with sharing. can i be? can i be all done with sharing my bed with children? is there some lost chance, some missed opportunity to snuggle that i will regret forever?

I’m done with my big project. Yes, another will arrive in a month, because it is luck to have work at all. This one was a particular challenge as i was morose and not working at all for a week, then the kids were here and recovery and grief and all, and suddenly i was in deep shit. brutal encouragement did the trick. but today, it is done.

now i go off to look at the class i signed up for, and get dreamy again, and maybe clean out the fridge. I’d like to rent a truck to move furniture to the dump. because otherwise i have to burn this messy house down. another thing i am done with.

teenagers. not done, but done, if you know what i mean. done.

sigh. i want some energy. where is it? did i have it before the broccoli problem? last year? When?

another thing I am done with? thinking that I should be all done with this pandemic thing. I ‘should be’ moving on, getting through, getting out. I should be moving, losing the weight, turning it around. The numbers are great, so great, comparatively. My mother is fully vaccinated, as are my in-laws and many people I love. And I don’t know how to accurately express the emotional salad bowl I have going on in me. What’s my resistance? What’s my problem? Why do I want to make another cake when I start thinking about it? Shit. fuck.


What are you done with? Really. I mean it. What are you done with?

close up photo of stacked brownies on chopping board
Brownie cake will do just fine. Photo by Marta Dzedyshko on


Procrastination fuckery.

these are the things i type to my accountability partner, gibbler.

: just hit 12 K. cry for me argentina.

: oh my god, i just want to eat and watch tv. this one is a wolf and a witch. i’m dying dying.

: my brain is bleeding.

: evil eye to the laptop

:you are the devil.

:i need food.


She is so good. She just tells me to keep going. She’s amazingly good at it. She doesn’t even sympathize, just tells me how good i’ll feel at the end, which is true.

Failing gibbering maw of doubt and whine: This is how much i am suffering for my art. ( i just snorted, because this is many things, but it is not art.) I just want to point out what my accountability partner has to deal with while i am writing a 35000 word romance. and i am potentially in trouble on the deadline of this one. I just caught myself playing a swap it match game on my phone. and I’m here, now. My brain is toast. I wrote almost six thousand words yesterday and that feels like a lot. I wish I made tons of money. I wish my sauna were electric so I used it more. I wish I was easier for people to understand. I wish plants could talk if they wanted to. I wish this story were done. I wish i had some chocolate. I wish I didn’t have to go right back to it, right now. I don’t like horses, really, although i think they just intimidate me. but I have plenty of wishes anyhow.

sigh. fuck.

I’m at 22,000 words. Thats a fuck ton. It really is. I still haven’t done my taxes.

sigh. fuck.

adorable horse standing on pasture in mountains
This is a beautiful horse, not a wish. Photo by Dario Fernandez Ruz on