I have such a headache.

The boy’s away for a couple of days, and I thought I’d get all kinds of good stuff done in my ample free time. Last night I returned Gambit, tonight I took my car in, tomorrow I will do something fun with Sarah. I need to pack, I need to revise my CV, I need to blog about all the books I’ve been reading. I need to write letters, and I need to do laundry.

Instead I will drink a cider and watch the convention, then go to bed early again.

I feel like there’s all these things I should talk about, but somehow it’s not coming. I want to explain the swell of patriotism I have felt while listening to the convention. I want to tell you what it felt like returning my cat last night, driving down the empty highway alone on a dusky summer night. I want to tell you about the vignette in Box Office Poison that nearly made me cry in the middle of Subway on Tuesday. I want you to understand why it’s so important to me to leave on my lunch breaks, and why spending $1.63 on coffee at 10:30 is better than just making another pot. I want to explain why working in a hospital is fascinating and strange, even though I don’t practice medicine by any stretch of the imagination. I want you to know that I am equal parts excited and deeply sad about my upcoming move. I want you to understand the me that I am right now, the mosaic of all these little pieces, the girl with the bare feet and muted television, thinking about macaroni and cheese and her boy on a Thursday night.

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