I was able to change my bloodwork appointment from today to tomorrow online, so I didn’t have to try and pick my way down to Fort Wayne – and maybe they would have been closed anyway.

However, now I am in a mood to do a faceflop on a sofa and just suck up rest, rolling over after a bit to prop my legs up and maybe read some. I’m inclined to let my body have the stability of a wet rag and just plop. Yet, there is another choice: I could actually summon up good cheer and bound into the kitchen to do dishes and then into the laundry room and oh, my, even do (try) a couple of core exercises. Yes, indeedy, that is a possibility.

Zest, clean smell, achievement – wouldn’t that be a triumph? Uh, this little pep talk isn’t working; I’m no Lou Holtz.

In the back of my mind where my rationalizing powers have taken over a big area, I’m feeling the formation of thoughts such as letting all the toxic tiredness and blahness flow out of my reclined body and then letting it recharge with energy for  tomorrow. (I’m not sure where this free-floating energy is and how it is going to collect in my body, but that’s not a big pitfall for me at the moment. I mean those vibrating little atoms have got to be somewhere around me; I could just keep my mouth open, as in snoring, and welcome them in. And pores: sweat goes out pores, can’t energy come in? Of course it can. It can pour in.) Sorry, I can’t help it – the punning thing.

Perhaps I need therapy, and that makes another vote for the couch.

I could make up some more of the “empty out your brain” non-plot story, but I find myself wanting to get more bizarre than usual with my explanations of how the green heel got in Louise’s house. Heck, I might even decide Louise is really someone else – maybe Louis. But right now, I keep wanting to go the spy route for Chablis and I am determined not to do that – Purple Alert Button in Moscow, be damned. In thinking about it, I am coming dangerously close to having some sort of plot and defeat my free-flowing thinking – or non-thinking, as it were.

Also, I feel bad – not too bad, but a little – about writing about Chablis being so bad-looking. It’s really catty and petty . . . and deliciously wicked.

Okay, I need a new plotless non-story. OR a scenario in which there are 30 characters and three names used with paragraphs jumping back and forth in time. God, I could be a genius. NO theme, definitely not. But, heme would be okay; yes, something about vampires.

Who knew I had so much stuff to empty out of my brain? And you know what? I am beginning to sense it is like an ever-growing blob.

I need a job that makes use out of my talent for the stupid side of crazy. A well-paying job, with benefits, and an office with a sofa.