It's Saturday night, and though I should be thinking: "why am I at home on a Saturday night?" and feeling depressed that I don't have a life, I actually wanted to be home tonight.
Winter is here, and my body hasn't adjusted to that yet. Yes, I spent about 15 minutes on my terrace today in the sun in a tank top, until the wind picked up, but winter is here. It is much colder than it was all week, and while it is not as cold as Canada or Russia, it is still a shock to the system. So here I am, snug and warm, nails painted and the peanut butter jar open beside me, with a spoon in it.
I am trying to think of a story to write, but I haven't had any ideas in a long time. I could write about peanut butter (done that)... or... nothing. I got nothing.
If anyone has any ideas, I'm all peanut-butter-brained at the moment, so feel free to share.
Think about peanut butter chip balls, peanut butter cookies. We will miss your sugar cookies this Christmas. At this time in the morning I have nothing for you to write about. Chicken is sitting here wanting me to pet her rather than type on the computer
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