I’m home again, home again.

Last night, the drive home was rainy, sleety, cold. Arrived at Sepia Fallows. Hugged. Kissed. Caught up. Unpacked. Tucked myself cozily into my own bed where the clean sheets I’d put on before leaving awaited me. Turned on the electric blanket, sat atop it, cuddled by my backrest pillow (some call it a *boyfriend pillow, a large, fluffy thing with arms and pockets), two furry, fuzzy blankets wrapped around me, a knit cap on my shaved head, hot peppermint tea beside me, and three books. I read until eleven when I turned everything off, including my phone, and dove, determined, into slumber. I woke up a lot, but stayed abed until six-thirty.

Now, I’ve either to brave the horrid, dank gray and cold day and return to the gym — Confession: I’ve not been since Friday — or move this laptop off my lap and onto my desk and get busy working on my writing.

I don’t much feel like doing either. Or turning my phone back on.

So I blogged. Damn. Now I’m done.

*Whoops … I called it a boyfriend pillow in a fit of depression last year about this time. CLICK HERE TO READ THAT. Oddly — or, not, the fellow who sort of inspired that post recently contacted me. I did not contact back. Which is my thing. Now. Everywhere. Everyone, it seems. Less and less contact.

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