I have spent the last half hour doing nothing. Not a relaxing nothing. More like a deer-in-headlights nothing. A stuck-between-too-many-things-to-do nothing. Procrastination of the if-I-wait-long-enough-to-decide-what-to-do-with-myself-I-won’t-have-time-to-do-anything kind.
At the very least I could have been reading. I gave up on one of the Hugo books (nominated for the YA award) yesterday. It wasn’t bad, but it didn’t grab me, so last night I started one of the remaining Best Novel nominees, one I’ve been looking forward to because it’s by Seanan McGuire and I have yet to read anything by her that I didn’t thoroughly enjoy. So why wasn’t I reading that?
I can go do that now, but sleep is looming, and even though it’s the weekend, I’m planning on getting up stupid early to run (before it’s hot), and I don’t want to skip tomorrow because I skipped today because I was up for two hours last night with Jack and when I’m up that long with him in the middle of the night, my 5am run is the first thing to go in favor of just a little extra sleep before I have to get up anyway because 6am is work time for me.
[Pausing for breath]
Well, that was helpful.