I'm just too tired to write. 2,437.5 pounds of bread and pizza dough this morning. My elbows are killing me, I keep looking down to make sure there's not a bone sticking through the skin.
There's a major disconnect right now with my ability to think and my ability to communicate, a disconnect that I'm sure could be solved by several hours of uninterrupted sleep, but I'm not getting that done right now. I've been reading tons of stuff about which I should be writing, before I forget what it was about them that grabbed my attention in the first place. For instance, I finished Edith Wharton's House of Mirth last night, I'm in the middle of one book of science essays, one book on shadows, one book on being a female oceanographer, one book on being Iranian-American, and another book of short stories based in L.A. And I'm sure I'll be happy to tell everyone about them. Later. Really. I will.
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