I can hear my neighbor clipping his nails in his bathroom, from where I sit here in my office. So I just turned up the Chopin, which is how I'm rockin' these days.
Shamefully, I am a follower, a person who needs to be told Try this, and so I was watching Dexter -- the episode where Deb has a crush on Carradine's older brother and he suggests Chopin to really get her juices flowing, and then she starts jogging to it, of all things.
If I tried to jog to Chopin, I would probably end up crawling or pirouetting. But I read this book; It was supposed to tell me how to write a book. I figured I could use all the help I can get. I'm just a lowly former journalist who knows how to not bury the lede, and I'm not sure if I'm even able to avoid that any more. My point is that the book recommended playing inspirational music while trying to write, which I tried to do, but everything I played was much too distracting.
Until Chopin. Which ... seems pretty awesome so far.
I'm afraid my sentence structure these days really leaves something to be desired.
By the way, why is Deb so skinny?
This weekend, I thought I had found the perfect bedroom set. It was midcentury madness and would fit perfectly into my Eichler home, the one I live in in my dreams.
And then I measured, and the set I want -- the set I demand, really -- was one inch too big to fit properly in the room, with all doors being able to open and close unhindered.
And then I pouted for a couple of hours.
Back to the drawing board on that, among other home improvement projects.
First world problems.
Hello, Monday. We have much to get done.