Time
I don’t have any. I shouldn’t be doing this right now. My kid is, appropriately enough, playing in the cupboards, throwing pots and pans, scratching the precious kitchen floor. I wish he wasn’t afraid of snow; I’d take him out and let him play. He needs to play. Our house is small, stifling. So is snow. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t like it. Too oppressive.
Over at drafilms, he’s talking about how he doesn’t know what to do on Friday nights, how he sees everyone dressed pretty and kissing on the streets and going to the bars, but that he just stays home and writes. There’s a certain sadness to his post. A lamentable sadness, a sense that his life is slower now that he’s older, that he doesn’t know what to do with himself if he doesn’t DO something. I know this feeling. 33 is rough. Not yet old, definitely not young. Exceptionally domestic and boring and poor and vicariously living through magazines and website gossip.
Kid’s quiet. Gotta check on him.
