Been in the throes of a weird restlessness lately…I want to paint, or write, or do SOMETHING productive, but inspiration isn’t coming. (Please don’t attempt to inspire me–I appreciate the thought, but trust me, that doesn’t really help. I’ve already run through all my usual–and a couple of unusual–methods, and I don’t think lack of inspirational thingies is actually the problem.) I think I’m probably burned out from the crazed rush through MFF, the last book, and the holidays, and yet part of my brain is going "You haven’t done anything remotely like genius for months! GET TO WORK!"
I sometimes think my brain has unrealistic expectations for the rest of me. Or possibly it’s just the new birth control pill.
However, regardless of source, all this energy has to go SOMEWHERE. The inside of my ribcage is itchy. Video games don’t help. I need to do something useful. I find myself going into the bathroom and spending twenty minutes scraping stray bits of grout off the side of the bathtub.
"Um," said Kevin, as I emerged, dusting grout from my hands. "I’m getting a little scared."
"You’re allowed to say "You’ve crossed the line and are displaying some kind of mania," I said, balancing with one foot on the nightstand so that I could dust the top of one of the paintings over the bed. "I won’t take offense."
"In that case, you’ve crossed the line and are displaying some kind of mania."
"Yes, I know." I crossed the bed to the other painting. "I’m out of painter’s tape. It’s ten at night. I really need an all-night hardware store."
I considered this, while dusting the Venetian blinds. "Is going to Wal-Mart for painter’s tape at ten at night entirely sane?"
"We’ve gone out at midnight for pop-tarts before."
I started on the next row of Venetian blinds.
"How much does Painter’s tape cost?" asked Kevin behind me.
"I dunno…five bucks a roll?" I leaned back and surveyed the windowsill, which probablyneeded to be washed. Or maybe repainted. Definitely repainted. Which brought me back to the need for tape again.
I heard a rustling nose. I turned around to see Kevin flinging bills at me. "Wait!" he said. "If this isn’t enough, I have a jar of quarters, too! For god’s sake, go get your tape!"
Thus apprised of my descent into madness I went to Wal-Mart and got tape, taped off one of the big downstairs walls, and did most of the edging in yellow before I finally ran out of steam.
The only possible moral to this story is that Walmart at eleven at night is a scary place and that you should probably always keep a spare roll of painter’s tape on hand at all times. And also that I need to stop blogging and go finish that wall, since I have to leave town to visit Arizona tomorrow, and I don’t want to come home to an unfinished wall.
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