I've spent the weekend in a chair, variously contorted and invariably uncomfortable. In chairs actually (more than one): a chair in the kitchen, in the living room, on the couch, and propped by the contumacious pillows of my bed. I also spent 7 straight hours on a chair in a coffeeshop with only one bathroom break -- which is really more about being dehydrated than the torturous trial of my weekend, which was torturous. I am feeling bound in breath and limb. I don't even dare to think about the things I'd rather be doing. I did do a little bit of running, but not enough.
My kid can make herself a PB&J sandwich now, so my work there is done. Of the eyebrow-raising proportions, the dogs clean up the difference and that allows me to stay in the chair. It has become the devil I know. I'd rather be a mom. I fucking hate sitting here...
...mostly because I'm not convinced of the validity or effectiveness of what I am doing or how I am doing it.
I'm researching. My research is focused on the great European witch-hunts in the early modern period of European history. This is the most awfully awkward sentence i have ever permitted to be seen by other people. I can't get beyond the fact that I've use the word 'European' twice in one sentence. OMFG. The subject is fascinating -- macabre, disgusting and infuriating, although I'm way too old and sagacious to let it affect me. Or have an effect on me. Fuck off.
I think a confident person would have finished this project by now. I'm too multi-causal in my approach, and it is the ruin of me. Stake me, burn me. Just let me out of this chair.
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