Do you want to hear about my weekend? Sorry, I don't want to write about it right now. It's a bit late. I don't even really want to write about today. Suffice it to say that the concerts went beautifully and there really isn't much more to be said about rehearsals anyway. Sorry, I'm not feeling like exerting much energy.
Something has been catching up with me today. Maybe it's just Monday, maybe it's that I didn't get a weekend, maybe it's because everyone around me is sick and I'm fighting something off (even if there aren't other symptoms) but I'm just tired, slow, and having trouble summoning up enthusiasm. I did various random, unconnected tasks today. Five thirty seemed really slow in coming. Even though I start somewhat later than I did during school, I'm using my mornings so I'm not really sleeping in. Part of my brain still thinks everything should be over by three o'clock. The other thing about school is that there's a change of scenery at least every eighty minutes or so. Things change, focus changes, and the day gets broken up. But I spent my whole day in the same room working from the same computer and my patience started getting thin. The computer was moving really slowly too.
Perhaps the most "exciting" thing that happened today was actually after I left the office. My dad drove me home and we were maybe five minutes away when I realized I had Julia's keys in my coat pocket from when I'd fetched some things from her car. So we got to go back downtown. I felt bad because when I called Julia she was getting ready to leave. One of the things I really want to do over Walkabout is actually stay organized with everything (I thrive on mess) but I've come to realize over the past couple of days that I just don't pay much attention to where I put things. You would think I'd have figured this out by now, but normally I just don't try very hard. Lately I've been intending to keep things together and in its proper place, but when I scamper off to do something, I'm bound to just set down a water bottle or, apparently, keep someone else's keys in my pocket. I've always like mess anyway, though. I'm not saying that entirely bitterly, even. Mess feels familiar and welcoming, kind of like I like old beat up books because there's evidence that they have been "loved." I'm probably just crazy, or at least I like to think I am. OK, I'm going to wrap this up because this will just get even sillier and more pointless the farther I go. I may as well just stop.
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