Monday, a free day off and the culmination of the three-day weekend. Monday, and I’m stuck inside with a terrible case of the shits. Started yesterday, got to feeling sick and spent most of the day in bed sleeping, a real drag. Whenever I do that, I get to feeling guilty because I leave Sharaun with everything, when normally the weekends are times when she can expect to rely on me for break from 24/7 baby-care. So I lounged around all day, not eating because I hadn’t the appetite, and not reading because my head felt soggy and focusing on the tiny words made everything swirl. I did, however, continue to contemplate this idea of writing in my spare time. I know, I already do, but not here. I mean trying to piece together a real manuscript. I think that, if I do decide to write something, it’ll be largely based on my own experiences growing up – it just seems like I have the most potential words there. I’d likely fabricate some, appropriate others, and exaggerate here and there – but, then again, that is my life so… no change there. I don’t know… whatever.
Lately I’ve been revisiting a certain daydream: Sharaun and Keaton and I have gone hiking/camping, and the morning after our we first pitched camp and spent our first night in the backcountry, we wake up to torrential rain. The rain traps us in our little tent, but it’s fine because we have plenty of food and water and supplies. We have books we can read ourselves and to the baby, we have snacks, clean diapers, everything. And so we while away the day in our little self-sufficient cocoon (the problem of using the bathroom blissfully solved for the purpose of the daydream), playing games and talking and listening to the rain as we stay warm and dry. I always picture that milky light of a gray rainy sky filtered through tent fabric, imagine cuddling up with the family, resigned to our fate, trapped for a day of forced-timeout. Another womb fantasy, I’m full of them.
I’ve sat here now for ~20min trying to think up another paragraph. That means I’m done. Goodnight.