Not even that I don't care...
Work is a four-letter word. The entire concept sickens me. [The commercial/industrial complex concept of it-- not the elbow-grease-for-potatoes-you're-growing concept.]
The particular task I'm assigned right now is gruelingly dull to the point of tears. Literally. Seriously.
There's an I-never-get-ahead-ness about the entirety of my day-to-day existence.
I don't care. Well, doesn't matter if I do-- no further ahead for doing so, so... why bother?
No desire to explore this option or that one. No excitement at a dome home on two acres, or a puppy running rabbits out of a garden thereon. [... well, we damn near evoked a smile, there...]
Treehouse sounds kinda cool... probably look them up again someday on the net.
Don't care to now...
Making a bit more green frog skins [dollar bills, Tonto...] each week by going in an hour earlier every day for work, and only losing forty minutes' worth of sleep. A fair exchange.
Which I don't care about one way or the other. Too darned tired to do all that caring crap...
Bummed. Bored. Restless.
Sit for minutes on end, looking at a screen I should be adding words to. Oft, of late, doze off doing so. And don't care so much-- where it would have killed me three months ago-- when, in nocturnal surrender, I bed down having added naught.
Airplanes. Bugs. Celtic Crosses.
Dancing a waltz.
Reading Tom Robbins. Or blogs (sorry, folks...)-- or writing them for that matter--
It really don't...
Least wise, not this minute.
Thanks for letting me start to dump, folks...
Saratoga Star Spring, Saratoga, NY. ca. 1865.
4 hours ago