I would like to have someone come clean the house, do laundry, and prepare meals for me for at least the next several days and possibly the next several weeks, until I'm done with these goddamned books. I'm inching along on writing and it's a quarter to seven and intellectually I'm aware that I need to go make food. I do not want to. I don't want to have to think about food, and traditionally my response to not wanting to think about food means eating things that are incredibly bad for me, which makes me fatter, which makes me grumpier, which pretty much leads into a vicious cycle. We have a fair amount of nice stuff to make into dinners. I just don't want to do it. I'd rather be hungry up until the point that I'm too hungry to cook anyway and have cereal or fried eggs or something equally stupid for dinner. Like a pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream, which I'm only not having because getting an entire pint would require a two mile walk.
I expect on more or less any rational level it's stupid to be thirty...three, or whatever I am, and just want to fling my hands up and stomp off and demand somebody else take care of the details, but god damn if I don't want to.