Aaah, the new year, in which (whether one admits it aloud or not) one has the best of intentions: Tomorrow, one secretly promises oneself on New Year’s Eve, I shall get up early, eat a sensible breakfast, clean the office, write five thousand words of heartbreaking genius, make a loaf of bread, clean the kitchen, do laundry, go to the gym, make a lovely dinner, and have a pleasant, relaxing evening after studying Spanish and the tin whistle for half an hour each. And that will be the shape of my days for this coming year, and it will be glorious.
Then you get up at ten minutes to eleven, eat 4 cookies and a glass of milk for breakfast, follow it up a couple hours later with two more cookies for lunch, go to clean the office and throw your back out two minutes in, limp downstairs to do dishes, grateful that the husband started laundry because you cannot now carry a laundry basket downstairs and at least you’ll have clean socks to wear tomorrow, have another couple cookies for a snack, discover you left the tuna which might have become dinner sitting out on the kitchen floor yesterday when you wrestled the over-full freezer into submission (and are astonished that it is sufficiently well-wrapped that the house does not smell of tuna and even more remarkably, the *cats* didn’t claw their way into the bag), and the only reason you leave the house at all is because the husband has caught your cold and needs you to bring him cold medicine at work.
I love the new year. I really do. :)
miles to Minas Tirith: 375(x-posted from the essential kit)