Mornings struggling to write, and walking the puppy instead.

Afternoons toiling on office tasks for my husband, while planning dinner and thinking about the puppy's loo habits. I do chores to pass the time, to feel the limited satisfaction of crossing items off a to-do list.

Nights on the couch with a sleeping puppy in my lap, watching the ends of movies and episodes of an animated show about space aliens disguised as American teenagers. Sometimes I feel like an alien, biding my time trying to pass as normal while my destiny calls from other worlds. The writing is a spaceship I can't repair, and it molders around my doubled form.

I'm supposed to work on corrections, but my supervisor hasn't pass on the examiners' report, despite his usual promises.

January is soooo stupid.

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