I seem to have lost my writing mojo. Or maybe it's just that I've been busy. Or distracted. Whatever, I just haven't felt a lot like writing and when I do feel like writing, I sit in front of the computer and stare at the screen before me before giving up and going someplace else.
A friend suggested that I should sit down and just write something. Anything, even if it's simply a description of the room I'm in. That can't be so hard, right? I could do that.... yeah? I mean, I used to be pretty good at this writing thing. I used to do it for fun. Maybe all I need is a simple little task to get the juices flowing again.
Lalalalala deee daaah.
The walls are beige. Not a nice beige, but since I didn't pick the color of the walls, I have to live with it. Not for long, since we're moving, though. They have that orange peel texture for the drywall. Not my favorite. So hard to get clean when something gets on the wall. How does that happen, anyway? How do you spill something on a vertical wall? And if it's not vertical, does that make it a wall still, or a floor, or the ceiling?
Speaking of the floors, most of them are fake hardwood. Not ugly, but a pain in the ass to clean. Because there's so much of it. Most of the house is hardwood. Fake hardwood, I mean. I get why people do it, the fake stuff, because it's cheaper and it doesn't look bad, and it's easier to clean and if it gets messed up it's simpler and cheaper to fix... but it feels like posing to me, still. Not that I want to sacrifice a bunch of trees to create a floor that I can walk on, or anything. I just like the look of the real hardwood better. Authentic, is the word. I like authenticity. Well, most of the time, anyway.
There are no trees in my yard. Actually, there's not much of a yard, either. Part of living in a trailer park is that the spaces are so small, big enough for your house and a space to park and a porch, and a little strip, if you're lucky, of yard. We actually have one of the bigger little yards of the park, but there are bigger and better. The new house, just down the street, doesn't really have a yard. All concrete and rocks. But the inside is newer, nicer, and has CENTRAL AIR.
I haven't lived in a house with central air in... years. Years and years. Years and years and years. I can't even remember what that's like. And it get so hot here in the summers. Although last summer wasn't so bad, not here, in southern CA. It was like summer took a vacation and plagued the rest of the nation with heat and more heat and more heat. We only made it to beach once. It was nice because we live in a tin box, and holy hell, Batman, it gets H O T here in the summers. We have a little air conditioning unit but it only cools one room and not even that very well. So moving into the new house with this thing called AC is going to be... magical!
Moving. I packed up most of the books on the shelves and the only ones left are the husband's. He needs to go through them so we can decide what he's keeping and what he's donating so that I can finish packing them up. I don't know why he hasn't done it yet. He just hasn't. I won't say that he has more books than me because that would be a total and complete lie, but still, he has a lot. More than the average person, I'd say. And what a pair we make when it came to combing our awesome powers; together we have enough books to build a small library.
And now I'm done. Mostly because I have to go and collect the children from school, and there's some things I need to do first.