Sunday, Monday happy days...

It is too early to be happy today. This is evidenced by the tantrum on pink shoes that Isabella had before leaving. She actually wanted brown clogs instead of pink sneakers, that her daddy so kindly bought her. (I never would have bought the pink if she hadn't been there nagging, that's for sure!)

I am left alone, again, in my living room, to observe my own undoing, or to start doing. Which will it be? The remnants of Sundays grading-fest are winking at me, with sly invitation. Yes, to the pile, almost finished with my own work. Why is it that we always feel the need to do work for others before we can dedicate ourselves to our own labor? (Maybe that is just me).

I hate to dissappoint anyone. Ever. This is perhaps my most detrimental of all defects. I always dissappoint myself, and that doesn't seem to matter. I am not proud of it. That's just the black and white of it.

Wouldn't it be nice to return to when wearing poodle skirts was trendy? (No) And when happiness was just having a good old car, and someone to ride around in it?... TV in all its nostalgic glory truly destroyed a generation of us, I think. But maybe, again, I am alone in this. Why does the "want" exceed the limits of reason, and of possibility? Why is instantaneous gratification so much a part of our decadent culture? Why can I not separate my thinking brain from my feeling brain? Why can't I just be HAPPY damn it?!

If misery were truly a comparable trait, I would have nothing, NOTHING, to complain about, my life is all but resolved. But therein lies the misery, who wants resolved? and what if the chords are resolved in a minor tone, or an atonal clash? Still, resolved, but not the way that you would want the song to end, with the warm release, the relaxing of all the muscles, all the tension, in a glorious chord of peace.

Ok, it is 8:02. Deal one I am going to stick with today. For my sanity, and my productivity. Me voy.