Don't bother me I'm writing

I don't like today -- my stomach hurts from last night's Chinese food; my head hurts from the Care Bears' sick-sweet voices chattering in the background; my face hurts from frowning; and my ass hurts from sitting. I woke up at 4:45 a.m. to the insurrection of Jerod's coat thrashing around the drier like a fistful of pennies. He had most of Sunday afternoon to launder the garment, but it made more sense to him to get up early and disturb his wife who'd fallen asleep on the couch a mere 15 feet from the laundry room. He might have had the whole of Sunday afternoon to wash and dry his coat, but he neglected to shake the sand off his work clothes before he washed them on Saturday. So I found a thick coating of grit and mud inside the washer and all over the clothes I laundered first thing Sunday morning. Maybe that's why he waited until 4:45 a.m. to throw his heavy Carhartt coat in drier, because he didn't cause me enough grief with the laundry the d...

I require little from the world beyond my front door. Minus a damned good reason to venture outside -- to get in my car; to deal with human beings who aren't on my short list of things that are tolerable -- I'm not leaving, because I'm a recluse, and I like sitting in my ratty sweat pants practicing my acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize in Literature.  This is something I've struggled with all of my adult life -- I was quite content as a child spending long stretches away from home so long as I wasn't at school or ballet. But starting in college I developed this anxiety towards the world outside my dorm room. I scurried to and from classes with my arms crossed around my middle and my eyes focused on my feet. I wandered out again only after dark to buy food and cigarettes. I jokingly tagged myself the Girl in the Window, because that's where I spent the majority of my free time if only to keep the frat boys from pissing there -- I felt a bit awkward...