Dribbling

Rough week of work.  It just creeps up on you and makes you forget about everything else.  Last weekend, I was all about photography.  I had the cameras out, was working with the Liberator, and even had ideas about projects.  I planned on working on those this week. 

I can't even remember what those ideas were, now.  Where are the cameras?  Everything went down the rabbit hole. 

Then comes Friday, and you think, "Thank God, I can. . . ."  But you can't remember what you "can" do, and you get out of work too late to really do anything, and suddenly it is raining as hard as you have ever seen it rain and all you want to do is get home, but there are stops to make and provisions to buy, and when you get home, soggy, there are issues to face and things to put away, and a dinner to make. 

But first you have the cocktails you have promised and been promised.  And of course, another.  And then. . . .

Saturday is rainy, so you stay in bed longer than normal, and by the time you get up, the day has already gotten away from you. 

You are not an adult, you think.  Today you must visit the tax accountant.  You told him you had your stuff ready, but you really don't.  You lie about it the way a child will lie about homework that isn't done.  You pay him a lot of money to do your taxes, but you don't feel in charge of the relationship in any way.  But the taxes must be done.  You've filed the extension and there are no more extensions to be filed.  There is something wrong with you, you think once again, and you know it will never get fixed. 

A vague feeling of sickliness and guilt.  The time to meet him creeps ever closer.  There is much to do, too much.  You think back upon the week.  You've made a mess of things, have left a trail of pissed off people and madness. 

All you want to do is remember what it was you thought last weekend.  Where are the cameras?  The film?  Something.  Anything. 

The day keeps dribbling away.