I went outside for lunch today, which I don't generally do. The Great Burning Eye and I are not buddies, you see. But today was one of those spectacular days that autumn seems to specialize in: cool, sweet air, bright, cloudless sky, busy rustle of the trees, stuttering rap of the frolicking jackhammer... Well, that's the city for you.

I sat out on the terrace and let the sun shine on me, getting that roaring volcanic orange glow behind my closed eyelids, and my hair was hot to the touch, probably glowing like a stove filament. When I opened my eyes again, the sun seemed so bright that it had leached the color out of everything--everything was old silver bromide, like a classic Astaire film.

I'm sure you've all noticed that I haven't really written anything since I started dating Mr. Pants... nearly two years ago. It is probably because my writing was such a solitary endeavor, and I had a lot of free time, a lot of alone time, Pre-Pants. It's also due in part to the fact that almost everything I wrote came from a place of longing, and I don't seem to have that anymore--or anyway, not to the same degree. I don't want this to be true. I love writing and I like what I write and yet it feels like... I am happy and I have nothing to say.

That makes me feel... unsettlingly domestic and weirdly un-feminist. And dudes, let me point out that Mr. Pants does the cooking and I'm not exactly beating my laundry against the rocks of the river or anything like that. Let us also note that in this time, Mr. Pants has written, illustrated, designed, published and is in the heat of promoting his own book. Mr. Pants likes what I write and does what he can to tempt me with screenplay projects and collaborations, saying he feels like it's his fault that I haven't been writing. While that's not strictly true, I mean, I'm not NOT writing in order to cater to his every whim or anything like that, it sort of feels true.

I've been neglecting LJ in particular for some time, but that was long before Mr. Pants, as I was wary of work net access and the insatiable time sink that is LJ/fanfic reading. I fear that I've earned some downright enmity in some areas by being away so long and so completely. But people with children, I don't even know how they feed themselves, and time management has never been my strength, and this ridiculous job has been so absolutely draining that I felt I could barely lift my head at home, let alone bust out the laptop and be at all amusing.

I don't know, kids. I should be focusing on discipline, working out regularly, eating 5 small meals a day, starting an actual savings account, paying down 5 K of credit card debt, writing for an hour every day...

I wish I had the kind of money that buys you an in-house nutritionist and a trainer, but I guess I'll just have to nut up and be responsible, be DIY, be the change I want to see, etc. (g)

I saw Persepolis last night; I'd read the first novel, but not the sequel, and it only intensifies the feeling that I should keep my middle class American whinging to myself: I love Mr. Pants more than buttered bread, I have no relatives actively at risk in Iraq or Afghanistan, I have a job and health insurance, Mr. Pants's brother has long since moved out. Boo freakin' hoo, right?

Introspection! Your eyes are no doubt bleeding with boredom now.

In other news: Mad Men, I am glad you exist. Also: I love me some fuckin' recaps.