Yesterday I didn't write anything. At least not on here. I wrote a little of a story, and also did my morning pages, but this, I didn't. I think it's just too many places to write and I'm not even having the time to savor whatever it is that I'm writing. Or maybe I'm just being dramatic.
Today is a Friday, I used to love Fridays as a child, the first day of the weekend and the first day of freedom. Fridays meant I'd wake up late on Saturday mornings, I'd visit my grandparents, I'd eat dessert for breakfast on Sunday and I'd play with my cousins. Fridays were the beggining of happiness. But as an adult I really am learning to hate it. I hate the responsibilities attached to it. I hate having to clean the house, hate the way it interferes with my routine. Hate the constricted schedule and how drained I feel after it. Fridays now are disruptive. Fridays now only mean more work.
Not much to be done about it, though. Getting up right now, for better or for worse.