Hey, Reader. Hi.
I am procrastinating. I don't know why I struggle against the act of packing as much as I do. But I do. And I like where I'm going, but still I hate the packing part. So much so, that I've got nothing but time on my hands, and here it sits at minutes to midnight, with a seven a.m. flight and I still don't have one things in my suitcase. I have things on the bed, in neat little stacks, but it's not whittled down yet. I need to cull the herd of shirts. It's too many. I have three sets of pajamas. I don't know what I plan on doing exactly to warrant the need for three pair of pajamas, but I'll be ready just in case.
When I'm a millionaire I'm going to have a professional packer.
And a hairdresser.
And a chef.
So basically a lot of good people to do things for me, because I have other things I'd rather be doing.
Like typing words that mean nothing.
Or watching t.v.
Or kissing kitties.
So yeah. I'll be gone for weeks and weeks. Don't try to rob me, Bad Guys. I've got people at the house, per usual, because eight cats. They demand live-in help. Because they're demanding that way.
I'd like to say that I'm going on vacation, but it's not a vacation if you're not working, is it? Don't you go on vacation to get away from the stress of it all? I don't have the stress of it all at the moment, so it's just a trip. To warm and sunny weather, where I shall process the hell out of Vitamin D.
I bought new lotion for myself on my trip and tried it out. I am silky soft and can't stop touching myself. On my arms, Reader. On my arms. Sheesh.
Stay in touch, Reader. Maybe I'll bring ya back a crappy t-shirt.