Paying Up

The inside of me wants to do things.

My mind swirls with dozens of different options.

I could organize my craft room some more.

I could clean the house.

I could scrub out both showers (but especially ours!).

I could make those ribbons.

I could get fancy and take that picture.

I could give the cats a bath.

I could paint/draw/chalk.

I could make those earrings.

I could do laundry.

I could put away the laundry that I did last week.

I could cook something delicious.

I could bake something.

I could organize my kitchen cabinets.

I could clean out that set of drawers and move it into my craft room.

I could watch another movie.

I could go for a walk.

I could make some more Christmas presents.

I could wrap some more Christmas presents.

I could practice my song for the vigil.

I could practice my talk for the vigil and the military breakfast.

I could take a hot bath.

But the outside of me sounds a bit more like this...

Hruuuuunggggrrrrrblllllllgrphh.... Why did you do this to meeeeeeee?! Don't you move. Don't even think about moving. You can't do any of those things. I won't let you. In fact, you should actually stop typing now, too. No more typing. No fun things, and I know you consider cleaning to be fun. You can't fool me. You're done. Just sit there and think about what you did.

Worst part is, the concert wasn't even good. But the sex was. And I'm paying for both. (And the day of business before that.)

Not fair, really.

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