One of the worst parts of all this is how little energy I have for anything. When I get home, it's about all I can do to make supper and do a little bit of cleaning up. It's not that I'm tired, although some days I'm so fucking tired that I can barely see straight. It's just that I'm not interested in anything. Not writing, not knitting, not movies, not my Buffy DVD's, not even the 'net. It's six thirty and I'm thinking about going to bed with a book. The boredom – when I used to bemoan losing even a second of the night – is palpable. It's times like this when I really wish that I had teevee. Just think: a steady stream of nonsense, distracting me from that box in my peripheral vision that's starting to fill up with the Boy's possessions.
Yup. That kind of distraction would be good right about now.
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*