I stared at my blog’s new post page. It was often open for days on end, and seemed to be always empty– just like my mind. I wracked my brain for new ideas, but none could fly, save one, and it was starting to struggle. Write about Ask again? His story wasn’t finished. I needed to finish it– wanted to, also. It was slowing dangerously. A break from his story would help, I was sure. Time to gather new ideas. Only one friend read all six parts, and she wasn’t online to bounce ideas off of and give input.
She was curious about Horse, though.
That was something.
I groaned and switched tabs to browse Imgur for a while, hopeful that SOMETHING would click.
When I grew bored, I switched my tab to Syndrone. It wouldn’t do to leave people waiting for a reply. I was also hungry. I debated getting waffles, but my ass stayed in my chair.
Absently, I wondered how my plants were, and that pulled me from my seat. The sage, catnip, camomile, and cherry tomatoes wouldn’t water themselves, and today was forecasted to be an ozone action day, according to my mother. To the kitchen I wandered, and I filled a pitcher about three fourths with water from the tap. Our water in this room tasted terrible to my sensitive tongue, but the dogs, cats, and plants liked it well enough.
The pitcher felt heavy in my grasp, and I carried it outside, and dumped water liberally on the fertilizer-poo, and then sprinkled the rest around. Quite a bit dripped through the holes in the bottom, and my blank stare as I put the pitcher underneath the dripping upside-down tomato plant was positively idiotic, if I had to guess. Even out in the sun for a minute, I felt my mind melting away. Several times, I pulled the pitcher away, only to watch more water drip onto the base of the black plastic patio-garden.
I always put it back, even as the two dogs who came outside with me stared at me in confusion. Skipper and Kodah stayed back, and when I turned to look at them, their eyes went to the pitcher. I held it down to Kodah, who stick his nose a centimeter in, and then looked at the dog pool. It was filthy. I dumped the water into it to loosen up some of the grime, then dumped it out and led the dogs inside, surprised that I could think that clearly in the heat. Once in the kitchen, I saw why the two were staring at me. I was pouring water on plants, and their water dish was dry.
Once more, I filled the pitcher, but this time, I got water to the brim before I walked across the small kitchen and carefully poured it into the metal dish. Some splashed, but that was inevitable. Neither dog came immediately, but I thought nothing of it. The third dog, Precious, didn’t come either, but she didn’t do much moving anyway, not with her arthritis and failing hips.
The kitchen was bare of anything I wanted for my rather late breakfast. Just as I began to head back to my computer, still hungry, the idea to have waffles revisited me, and I turned around. May as well get them while I was still up, I decided, and headed out. Heading outside was like opening a too-hot oven. I walked through a wall of heat into the outside air. The thermometer said it was a nice seventy inside, but over a hundred in the sun. Oh, lucky me! Our back yard– the very path that led me to the garage, where our large freezer was, happened to face east.
Through the sun, about twenty feet, I walked through what felt like a wasteland, covered sporadically in dog poo landmines courtesy of Precious. The garage was almost heavenly, with its shade and insulation. I wove through the grocery bags filled with trash– legacy of a huge raid on Janelle’s room when my best friend was visiting, and found the ugly green freezer.
Without a thought, I opened it, sought out the desired breakfast waffles, and pulled four waffles from their box. Delicious fake blueberry would be wonderful. The smell at least, before they were cooked, was wonderful. The walk back in was uneventful, save that I gripped victory in one hand. The ridges dug lightly into my fingertips, and the cold was nice in the sun. Once inside, I popped all four into the toaster, made certain it was set for the lighter side of medium, and pushed them down. Syrup went into the microwave for a minute, and I sat down to stare at my screen for a time.
A game download was almost finished. I clicked the start button, and it moved to the launcher screen to patch. The microwave beeped five times before I finally pulled the syrup out and put on some music before I went to the kitchen to get my waffles, plate, and silverware. Pop! Up the waffles came, and I grabbed them and piled them neatly on the plate, seams down, and set one apart from the others before I carried my armload out to the table, where I shoved my laptop back and placed my waffles in front of me. I filled each square carefully with syrup before I ate each waffle, and then shoved my plate away, only to get distracted by the wonders of the internet.
A half hour later, I returned to the wordpess tab and whimpered quietly. Why was there nothing in my head? I couldn’t understand. Not long ago, I would not have struggled this much with something as simple as an idea. My head hit the table, and I looked at my long list of owed stories. If I could just do two or three today, and keep that up, I would catch up, and I wouldn’t feel like a failure.
I tried music to set the mood, but I couldn’t find anything. I tried more Imgur, but an hour disappeared. Finally, I looked to my last resort– writing about my own life.