I didn’t write today. I thought and thought about writing. I thought about what to write, but in the end I didn’t write.
I let myself down. I had given myself the task of writing something everyday, but I didn’t write today so I feel bad.
I slept late and dreamed strange dreams, dreams that I can’t remember, dreams that didn’t make sense.
I ate toast that almost burned, with vegetable spread and marmalade. I made and drank coffee and later bought and drank coffee.
I went to WalMart and I went to Sam’s Club. I bought a new skillet and some Cheerios for my Dad. I ruined his old skillet a couple of weeks ago by letting the noodles burn.
But today I didn’t write.
I’m supposed to write everyday.
I thought about writing a poem or finding a photograph from the Flickr Commons and writing a really short story about it, but I didn’t.
The picture could have been this one. I wonder what I would have written about this picture? Maybe that the actress was thinking of quitting show business while she was performing this movie scene, or that the car was on loan from a wealthy banker from Sacramento. Maybe the banker was the actress’ father and that’s how she got the job. I might have written any number of things, but I didn’t, because I didn’t write today.