Line Dancing.
Things are tight right now, the move being such an ordeal. We still don’t have our stuff. Uhaul knocks off $50 a day for every day they’re late. At this rate, we’ll make a decent chunk back. That said, I want my fucking stuff.
Of all the things I want, my desk is at the top of the list. I need to sit and write. I can’t keep juggling my laptop in weird places, like in bed or on the floor; my muse doesn’t mess around with this kind of bullshit. It’s muscle memory. I know the desk, the height, and the way I set it up, and my mind isn’t thrilled with reconciling my attempts at replacing the desk with the bed.
No news otherwise. Maybe a celebration of life for Grandpa, but not until the summer. Our puppy is doing great. The cats are fine. Trevor’s new job is infinitely better than his old job. Etc.
I just want my fucking desk.