about not not wanting to write.
It’s not that I don’t want to write. It’s just that I like being cheerful when I write, and I am basically the least cheerful person on the planet right now. A combination of this cold that will not go away and relatedly an ear that is still not working and nine different projects at work that are all happening at the same time and none of them are interesting to me or challenging-in-a-good-way or anything that I would like to be spending 14 hours a day doing but still have to spend 14 hours a day doing including probably a lot of Saturday and Sunday which is seriously cutting into my card-writing plans and the fact that it is going to be seventy-fucking-two degrees tomorrow HAVE NOT PUT ME IN THE HOLIDAY SPIRIT, DAMMIT.
So that’s why I’m not writing. Everything is draining. Anything I have to tell you is stupid stuff, like how I ran out of butter like a week ago which never happens and I keep forgetting to buy any because seriously, who runs out of butter? Or depressing stuff, like a theater friend’s boyfriend’s parents getting killed in a car accident this week and how I can’t think about it too much because that is truly my worst nightmare. Or boring work stuff, like how my division chair is stepping down in January when I thought he was going to be stepping down in July and the guy who is replacing him is someone I have worked well with in the past but I can already see that him running the joint is going to be very tricky, and I don’t really want to think about looking for a new job yet or I don’t know maybe ever.
However, one week from tomorrow is my birthday, and very early that morning I will get on a train and go meet Melissa in New York, and there we will try to get Hamilton tickets on Saturday afternoon, and then we are going to different shows on Saturday night because she is seeing Spring Awakening which is lovely but, again, not the cheeriest musical in the world, and it’s my birthday, so I am seeing Something Rotten, and then on Sunday we will try to get Hamilton tickets again and if not we will pass the time doing the things we do in New York City, which include eating and the Union Square Holiday Market.
(That was us at the Union Square Holiday Market in 2004. I’m sorry but we totally do still look the same. WE DO. Shut up.)
I write this while listening to:
Maybe This Christmas
There’s no link because fitting with the theme of this entry, apparently this CD does not exist as is in iTunes, there’s now a compliation of some of the songs from this and Maybe This Christmas Too as A Winter’s Night Vol. 2 (what Vol. 1 was, I have no idea.) Anyway, it’s kind of a cranky Christmas CD, which I don’t listen to so much anymore because it brings about a weird nostaliga about the navel-gazing angst of my thirties. But some of the songs are quiet and hopeful, too.