I am officially affected by the weather.
Not that this statement should come as any kind of surprise to those of you who have been keeping up with my journal, when I do get around to writing and then posting my thoughts.
There are distinct implications of weathered unhappiness.
Truth is, it's a bit more complicated than that.
I'm actually very happy most of the time.
But I can't shake the feeling that my body is dead weight; if I didn't have to drag the damned thing with me everywhere I go, maybe I'd have more energy.
And I've been unusually hypersensitive about my writing. Like I suddenly got my hands on some honest-to-goodness literary taste.
I think it's time to set aside whatever crappy thing is keeping me from writing about the everyday parts of my ordinary life.
I did three loads of laundry over the weekend. My room smells like someone kicked over a bucket of Surf, and I love it. It makes me feel better.
And when I went downstairs, no one was using the machines.
The last time I tried to do laundry, I waited two hours before removing someone else's clothes from the washing machines (which hadn't been running for any of that time). Then I waited another hour for those clothes to finish drying, because the residents who left them in the washing machines for so long finally got a clue and came downstairs to put their wet clothes in the dryers.
As you can imagine, I was very unhappy.
But this weekend, not a minute of waiting. And like a good apartment-dweller, I pulled my clothes out of the dryers as soon as they were finished, folded them carefully, and disappeared.