Ennui typhoon

These last few weeks I’ve been all take but no give. All reading but no writing. Why? Because I’m in some kind of ennui typhoon where I have nothing of interest to say. My excitement has consisted of eating ice cream and having my face bandages downsized (I heart steri-strips). My angst has been grievances about my hair and whines about the library reservation system being down.

I did the depressed smoldering poet thing only once. It was in 5th grade, and I stayed home from school and typed out pages and pages of poems and short stories on the typewriter, pausing only to stare morosely out the window at the rain. (Oddly, a lot of the poetry was upbeat, like limericks). By the end of the day I had several inches of writing that I never looked at again, and I’d cured myself of any poet aspirations. Another childhood milestone that I passed too soon (along with abandoning Barbies in 2nd grade and canceling Seventeen at thirteen).