Eleven

I'm behind in my writing by about eleven post entries. I've been making notes in my purse notepad, in order to remind myself to write about this, that, or the other, as my days come and go. For whatever reason, though, I seem to go into some kind of comatose state once I get home.

It's a phase, I know. It'll go away and I'll go back to spewing nonsense in no time at all. But this in-between state that I find myself in, makes no sense to me. On the one hand, the words are swimming, on the other hand, I seem to not have the focus enough to put them down on paper, even if just in draft form.

I'm such a weirdo. Even I don't get me.