I feel like my life is so busy that I ought to have plenty to write about.
I could write about Kris’ tom-astrophe last night — all of her ginormous tomato trees collapsed under the mass of an overhead watering, which resulted in a panicked and futile attempt to stand them up again — but she’s prohibited me from mentioning it.
I could write about poor Tiffany’s nightmare evening — she came home to find big, lovable Porter (my favorite of her four cats) with some sort of respiratory failure, rushed him to the vet, learned he had lymphoma, and had to put him down — but the thought of it makes me sad.
I could write about my sleep problems — I got a new mask for the C-PAP machine but it sucks, I haven’t been getting to bed on-time, and my rest has been fitful — but that bores even me.
I could write about all of my weblogs — Animal Intelligence is now up and in testing, Get Rich Slowly was on Metafilter yesterday (which makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside), and Four Color Comics is experiencing a re-birth — but I write about that sort of stuff enough already.
I could write about how I’m starting another diet, about how the kittens and the chicken continue to live in harmony, about how Simon climbed on to the roof of the house, about how I’ve been rather busy at Custom Box lately, about how Kris and I have learned we need a picnic table at Rosings park, about our upcoming trip to San Francisco. I could write about all of that.
But I’m tired. So I won’t.