I am aggravated with myself. I reread my old journals and I crack myself up. I read actual published books, and I think "I could write a better book than that." But do I get off my lazy butt and write said book? No I do not. I'm not so good at writing unless I have a long stretch of time in front of me. Or it's due tomorrow.
Also, part of me thinks I should actually hike the entire trail before writing a book about it. I mean, Bill Bryson didn't, but he was already a famous author. I'm just somebody who amuses my own self.
I'm probably going to have to do something adult and mature like make a commitment. Like, I made a commitment to go to the gym twice a week to do the back exercises the physical therapist taught me. It's important, it's for my own good, and I actually do it. Of course, that's only 45 minutes twice a week, which isn't a huge commitment. But I think it counts.
Gah. Hate being adult and mature. Is much more fun to watch tv and eat Twinkies.
Come to think of it, I'm not sure that I've ever watched tv and eaten Twinkies simultaneously. Also not sure how many years it has been since I ate a Twinkie. I am definitely sure that I loved Twinkies when I was nine. Also I loved that tomato soup with the alphabet in it. What was that called? I can't remember. But I tried it again when I grew up (technically I'm an adult now) and it tasted sweet and gross. Sad.
Also, we haven't really watched "tv" since those jerks changed everything to digital and turned my tv into a useless hunk of metal and glass. I watch Netflix. Sporadically.
INTERLUDE
I just went into the kitchen because I heard the dryer buzz (the dryer is only accessible through the kitchen) and as I walked through I saw a camel cricket. ON THE CUTTING BOARD. Camel crickets have invaded our kitchen! I screamed like a little girl, and then I tried to kill it with a knife but it jumped, like those little effers like to do. So instead I dropped the cutting board on it from several feet up, and miraculously I hit the critter. And then I bravely killed it by stepping on the cutting board. Not one of my finer moments. I'll sleep in the woods for months on end, but do NOT let one of those godawful too-many-leg prehistoric-looking things in my house. Eesh.
END INTERLUDE
ACTUALLY, MORE INTERLUDE
We are having a domestic situation here at the house. I can't really give you any details because my husband might divorce me, but the gist is that we have a LOT of ants in here right now. All over the place. I am having hysterical itching.
OKAY REALLY DONE WITH INTERLUDE
What's a good way to do something that you do want to do but it involves being grown up and mature? Do you think 45 minutes twice a week is reasonable? That's, like, 8 words in Words with Friends, which is mostly Words with my Husband, except not in the "we're having words" way. It's amicable. Except when I get all vowels.
The really galling thing is that it's mostly written already. I'm planning to take journal entries, spell check them, buff them a little, and intersperse them with commentary as I feel moved to do so. And it's not like I need to do a lot of fact checking. (I might need to change some names to protect the innocent.)
So annoyed with myself. Might put self on restriction. No tv for one week. Or Twinkies.
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