...Didn't Write a Damn Thing

I haven't updated this week. My challenge to myself when I set this blog up was to, at the bare minimum, write once a week. But my week is nearly over and I thought I would write something tonight when I had all that Loser at Home on a Saturday Night Alone time... but I didn't. And not for any good reason like "I broke all the bones in my fingers so couldn't type" or "Mum was cooking a lamb roast so I had to call up Tom Cruise and tell him I couldn't make our date but his entourage kept giving me the run around". There's just nothing in there. And by "there" I mean the ol' coconut that holds me brain in. It's all gummed up like a shower drain filled with hundreds of old hairs wrapped around the underside of the plug hole. And I know what to blame this on: I'm thinking about excel spreadsheets and dispenser brackets in Singapore and what kind of cleansing kit the Taiwanese would really, really like.

You know, the stuff that's going to change the world.

So anyway, when I get home from work and have brought all of that home in my head with me, I end up trying really hard NOT to think about it. Which unfortunately results in the mental equivalent of stuffing cotton wool in my ears to block out white noise - sure I can't hear the white noise anymore, but I can't hear anything else either.

As a result? No writing for me. Instead, my big achievement for tonight was to watch about eighteen episodes of Sex and the City, eat snakes for dinner, make a chicken casserole (which I don't know why I didn't make earlier in order to avoid scoffing the bag of food colour and sugar in place of a crucial main meal), ride my bike to the IGA for baking soda (taking the long way home for no good reason other than I was liking the "whooshing" feeling) and bake banana spice muffins.

Tidy little list of activities there, but not one of them involves writing a damn thing. Anyone for muffins?