Post-Mary-goes-blind Post

I’m afraid that I’ve been terribly bad about blogging lately. In my defense, I have thought about blogging fairly regularly. I think about it when I’m sitting in my cubicle drinking my re-heated decaf tea (softened even further with incongruous coffee creamer), plucking squashed strawberries from a zip-lock bag and having some thought that I suspect might be clever.

However, lately when I get home (ah, look, a reformed employee who does no on-the-clock-blogging) I have not the least desire to gaze with my usual adoration into the screen of my computer. I don’t even have my usual yearning to look up Amish-made pony carts on craigslist.

I’ve felt very acutely like lying on the carpet and cloud-gazing at the shoddy popcorn ceiling (being opposed to going outside now that the weather has turned dreadfully warm). On days of particularly intense apathy (and now I’m waxing oxymoronical) I’d like to shut my brain off entirely and watch post-Mary-goes-blind episodes of Little House on the Prairie of a specifically sentimental vein. That's right, only the really god-y ones that star Michael Landon, were written by Michael Landon and produced by Michael Landon.

But as usual I have blogging guilt. Not because I labor under the illusion that a multitude of people are awaiting my every post, but rather because I labor under an equally heavy illusion of myself as a master-blogger (and believe me, I've gotten even snobbier since I quit the twit).


On the whole however I can't think of too many snippets of profundity that I've missed posting in my recent reluctance. The world doesn't really need one more person whining about the Kindle and chattering on about the embarrassment of finding the gum that you spit out the window miles ago on the side of your car door when you get home.


But for now I should go to bed so that I have sufficient energy to be lazy again tomorrow.