But the house, the house is dark

 I'm never sure how much I should get done in a day, what counts as enough.  And my therapist reminds me that I should take breaks, be nice to myself, let the internal bully take a break.  But I'm pretty sure the internal bully is the only reason I ever get anything done.  There's a sneaking suspicion I have that I'd stay in bed merging dragons or rearranging letters for at least a year if i didn't tie myself up in chains of obligations and expectations and shoulds and ought.

 

I think the last song I listened to this many times in this short a time was Anna Tivel's Worthless, but I'm watching the Leonard Cohen What Happens to the Heart again for the gazillionth time.  But I've also unpacked and six pounds of assorted apples are being turned into apple sauce, 

 

I just rejected the last three books I tried to read.  One for having a character named Veronyka.  Which I might have forgiven, but I also seem to be getting a chip on my shoulder about the number of book-specific proper nouns I'm willing to ingest in the first chapter of a book.   One for having the lesbian vampire sorority sisters have very challenging to follow sex.  One for just generally being substandard writing.  

 

Or maybe I'm entering one of those periods where nothing suits me.  Those are always fun.

 

This sleep schedule doesn't seem to be working out for me.  I get to bed around ten, sleep for a bit spend at least an hour in between 1-3am awake, go back to sleep, get up between 5:30-6.  Which seems like it should be close enough to 8 hours, but totally isn't.  Time to get off my ass and schedule that sleep study, I guess.  Or at least fix my fitbit os I can find out  a little bit more about sleeping.

 

This also isn't the post I wanted to write, but something's stuck in my brain and I can't shake it loose.