I just baked a loaf of bread--not a baguette or a boule, but a plain old loaf of sandwich bread that goes in a rectangular pan--and I'd forgotten how delicious that can be slathered with honey butter still warm from the oven. I ate two pieces, which I kind of regret because I feel over carb-o-fied but that's okay. The house smells like yeast and it's just so nice and homey but still, the anxiety lingers. I hate this anxiety. Also: I DID NOT get the correct item shipped for my super-awesome steampunk outfit that I want to wear to Saturday's Poetry Brothel but the mail order joint is shipping me the right one (I hope) tomorrow so all may not be lost. Or I might not look particularly Victorian. We'll see. I have work to do but I don't want to do it.
The last few held-over-for-consideration poems are calling me but I feel unfocused. If you haven't heard back from me yet, it's because I like your stuff. Expect to hear from me soon, soon, soon.
I would like to accomplish something fabulous, but I have no idea what that would be. I have all kinds of mad-awesome skills that nobody cares about and that will never lead to a sophisticated job where I might wear really good shoes and everyone is required to be polite, like, all the freaking time. Still, I can bake bread and write poems about mass murder and craft a bitchin' metaphor. That's useful.
I am feeling impatient. I need to learn to tolerate humans better. I'm trying.