So it’s come to this. The husband asked why I had to write a blog these last few nights when I’m so tired. And the answer is fairly simple: I have to.
He knows that though. He’s been with me through one of these recorded years before.
Truthfully this is one of those nights where the act of writing itself seems to be the only point. There really is nothing to write about. Conferences are self-important but generally unremarkable. Our little family of kitties and fishies and some humans is carrying on. It’s still raining on and off. We are waiting to hear what has become of our mortgage. I remain optimistic, mostly because I have to be.
Meanwhile the newsfeed continues unabated. US elections lurch forward. A high-profile rape trial ends in a hung jury. Kesha has dropped the lawsuit against her producer, at least in California. It’s obvious that Google has me pinned for reading political news, anything about sexual assault, and the occasional environmental story. Facebook tries to sell me furniture (and still keeps pushing Trump on me, despite what must be a growing algorithm of sniffy indifference – I’m starting to think that Zuckerberg is a Trumpette). Every New Zealand website wants to sell me real estate. They can all fuck off and die.
… Yeah, he’s right. I am tired.