Welcome To My Bed

I want to paint today, but I'm not sure I remember how. I don't even know where any of my supplies are. Nor do I have the slightest idea where to begin. I'd take pictures, but my cameras have no batteries. I'd write, but all I can hear is the rain on the roof and the windows and the water sliding down the drainpipes. There are so many things I'm itching to do but haven't gotten around to yet. It's silly, but I feel lost. Living out of boxes and suitcases is a strange thing, especially when you're staying in the house you grew up in. I started crocheting myself a blanket this afternoon in an attempt to calm myself down a little bit.

My house has outgrown me. I don't fit here anymore. I've been feverishly reading White Oleander for the past few days and it makes me depressed. It's not as good as I remember. Janet Fitch is old and doesn't edit herself well. Or maybe her editor didn't edit her well enough. Things got repetitive. It's no wonder that I liked the book in the seventh grade. Next will be Joyce, hopefully to restore my faith in novels, and then after that I don't know what I'll want to devour. There are too many and too few hours in the day. Maybe I get paid tomorrow. I'm not supposed to work for the next week; there is too much time to kill.

I keep changing my mind about whether or not I want to be in Providence for the summer. Already I'm so lonely. There it will be worse. I'll split Maggie's gas with her if she promises to visit. I need to make up my mind.