I still have nothing to tell you. Well, except for these things —
- The coworker I brought the cookies for wasn’t in yesterday or this morning. If she doesn’t come soon, we’re going to open the box and eat them and that will be the end of it. I’m actually really hungry for a pink sparkled butter cookie.
- I’ve been sitting up late the past few weeks knitting my sweater. It’s really nice — I just keep going, and it has a repeating pattern of some interest but not too much interest. I have been watching Midsomer Murders, which may be the perfect thing for the job — it’s interesting enough, but not too interesting. Murder happens, but the main characters are happy and stable. It has certainly cured me of any desire I may have had to go and live in an English village. As the detective pointed out when his wife wanted to move to a cottage in a village, villages are a seething mess of craziness and years of festering unhappiness. You really do get that feeling. I do kind of like the farm machinery, though.
- I went to the gym this morning. Now everything hurts. I suppose this is a good thing?
- And now, thank God, it’s time for lunch.