Feeling boring. Not bored. Boring. I feel like I am boring. The stuff I'm designing and writing doesn't seem interesting at all. Snore. Snore. Snore.
I did that sale of my Logophilia prints with Fab.com and then one with RedNook, and now I'm planning some more with Fab, one with Uncovet for Thursday, a Joss & Main sale in June, and then one sometime in May—I think—with One Kings Lane. All this gives me lotsa opportunities to go through my own "work." And it's boring. I feel like a schmuck sending these flash sale sites my images. Blech. Boring.
And my writing is a snooze fest too. Prepping stuff to send to literary journals means that I get—ha!—to read through essays again and again. It's a freakin' miracle I don't break my keyboard with my noggin as it lolls forward when I fall asleep mid sentence.
I need to do something new. I need to make a new talent. But I'm not interested in anything else. Actually, I'm not interested in anything at all. (And I'm not depressed. I swear. I know all too well what depression looks and feels like, and this ain' it. I'm just bored of being boring.) I'm not interested in cleaning up my office and shipping back a bunch of shoes and clothes that I ordered and don't want. I'm not interested in prepping stuff for my pod meeting this week. I'm not interested in answering the pile of emails in my inbox. Blah. I just want to make posters on my computer. Posters that bore me.
You might be interested to know that Mark just walked into the bedroom where I am and left with a .22 rifle. What?