I’ve done very little this week, some revisions, mostly-mindless journaling, and brief shouts on my social networks aside. In fact, I’d say this semi-vacation turned out to look disturbingly similar to a real one. And of course, I’m already feeling anxious about that.
The week has worn on me, in good ways and bad. The first couple of days were an amazing combination of productivity and laziness. Then the laziness began to take hold. Now I’m in that self-deprecating place where I’m angry I’ve accomplished so little and wish this damned vacation was over.
I’m heading back home today, instead of yesterday. Not quite a last-minute decision, but ill-adivsed either way. Sitting here, trying to muster the will to pack my stuff, I have about as much energy as a brick. And with the buffalo wings I ate last night kicking up a storm in my colon, all I want to do is go back to sleep.
I’ll manage somehow, of course. I’ll get a pot of coffee on, smoke a few more cigarettes, then start getting my shit together. I have dirty clothes in two rooms, electronics scattered around the house, and more than a few odds and ends to track down. It’ll all end up in bags, packed up in some kind of order, then trotted out to the car.
I figure I’ll be home sometime in the early afternoon. I’ll unpack, get settled, and probably spend the rest of the day hanging out on my porch with a cold drink. Early to bed, then early to rise so I can get back to work.
I love hanging out in Raymond, but I’m really missing my desk right now.