There are a bunch of things I want to write about, like Thanksgiving blah-blah, the magnets you guys have sent, and one of those lame flash fiction thingalings, but all I want to do is lay on the couch and read.
It always works that way. I can have nothing on my plate and no desire to relax with a book. A hundred things I need to do, though, and you can be sure all I want to do is blow off responsibility and do word searches, give my brain a rest before it starts blueprinting the apocalypse.
So for now have a picture of Chooch. He posed like this on his own and I was like “WTF are you doing, freak. This isn’t a Gymboree catalogue.”
Also I’m posting this from my phone so god only knows how the photo will format.
Now I need to go back to reading, taking breaks only to add shit to my Christmas wish list. (Chooch and I really want a Dippin’ Dot ice cream maker and not just so I can mastermind hideous flavor combos for Henry and Janna.)
(So I can stuff Alisha’s pillowcase with cherry-flavored dots.)