i'm starting to remember why i hate coming home. it's the interminable boredom. i have nothing to do. i've watched entirely too much tv and i reread one of my childhood favorite books, julie of the wolves. i sleep too much and feel like crap the rest of the day. i could drive up to my cousins' house, but all we'd end up doing is talking, watching a movie, or sleeping. i want to go out and get some sort of alcohol because i can. but there's no one to drink with. the dogs stink and need a bath...but i dont have the energy. there are plenty of cookies and pies and breads and dinners i could make, but i just cant seem to get started. that's what i really want to do, i want to cook. i want that warm environment and the wonderful smells and the mess and the sweet accomplishment afterward. i'm just not comfortable here.
the one up side is that my bed is warm. for so many years, i've struggled to get my bed warm. finally, i have found the right combination of blankets to keep me from waking up in the middle of the night shivering.
i need something to do...desperately. i really wish we had an extra car. plus i just feel so damn guilty using my parents' gas or time or car or anything.
why can't someone cook good food?? i'm freaking tired of takeout.
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