There Ain't No Gold in this River that I've Been Washing My Hands in Forever

Some nights are like this in Suwanee, Georgia. I suppose the ottoman schtick is losing its novelty. But my feet aren't up tonight. I have them curled beneath me in my chair in the usual position for anyone who knows me in any intimate fashion. I've got my tomato soup and my signature amped up grilled cheese on the end table. By the grace of dog, Blanche hasn't shown any interest.

I'm home alone. And that's okay tonight. I like my own company pretty well. I never struggle with a way to entertain myself. The whole world has all of these things I haven't tried. Novelty is the flavor of the week.

I've left my current novel at my sister's house. She texted earlier. Let me text her back. She's suffering tonight. And I cannot stop that suffering. And it kills me. My own body is letting me down today. Even after a good night's sleep-better put that watch on the charger-I am exhausted. I might be getting sick, or my body may have just decided that we're taking a break. In two years, I've canceled a gym session twice. Once with a blistering migraine and once today because it's just not in me. Maybe I just need a lift. If I can accept the hand and not bite it or hold too tightly.

I wish the phone would ring. But it won't. And that's okay. Everything has a time. I'll pluck a new old novel off the shelf and satisfy my need for socialization with people made up for just my sort of person. Such a list of options, recommendations from people I adore. People I've tried to. Let those characters save me again, until I can barely stay awake and then I'll climb the stairs, over the landing, wash my face, floss, and pull my silk pillowcase under my head.

I won't be up too late tonight, I think. I'm grateful that I don't have to be. Sleep debt is real and I'm over my head in it. I'm told my writing only improves with delirium. I'm not sure what that says about either me or my writing. Maybe this is the time to start the outline for that novel I keep receiving demands that I write. And the idea has come to me fully-formed in a way that I'd always heard about, but never believed was real.
 
Despite being tired, my mind is restless. I'm willing to let someone take it for a walk. I just have to be careful who. But some nights are like that in Suwanee, Georgia.

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