The netbook is across the room. I have no idea where that slippery little pink mouse with its long USB tail is. My writing desk on wheels is covered with this week's clothing which includes 2 shades of gray jeans. My huge orange leather bag--more luggage than purse--needs a place to rest. And this dust. Dust adorns the purple of my netbook with purpose. Why should I disturb it? I probably won't remember my password anyway. And Dood is still awake. There is a stuffed Sonic and Smurf fighting to the death on the bed I should be in.
Not here. In this corner. Typing. This. I blame the Olympics.
So many athletes striving to achieve greatness as I look on. I could have been a gymnast if it wasn't for these pesky boobs. I'm perfect the height . Another missed opportunity. I lack the broad shoulders for swimming or the swollen muscles of a sprinter. The Brazilian Butt Lift work out DVDs are lost in a stack of forgotten movies so my Volleyball dreams are also deferred.
Sharp shooter. I could have been a sharp shooter.
Dood didn't pass the second go round at swim class. "He's so close. We know he can be a great swimmer. Please continue with Level 2." I don't know how Michael Phelps' mom sat in so many aquatic galleys for so many years. I'm stressed from one summer. But then again he's the most decorated Olympian ever. Is there an Olympic sport for couch jumping? I'm asking for reasons.
And Fidge. She's almost 16 so there's that. She's also pretty fluent in English so I'll just stop here.
Sleep calls and I can't tolerate another Olympic Zombie morning from viewing tonight's previously recorded events. Just know that I've answered the call and you've got me for at least 30 days. Peer pressure.You can thank Aliya.