Once again, I am allowing myself the luxurious five-minute fantasy that I'll be able to dedicate great expanses of time to my writing this weekend.
The house is quiet, and I'm alone. All the laundry is done. There's plenty of food in the pantry. I have no place I need to be until next week's media job in San Francisco.
My fingers are poised over my novel, and I'm smiling at the prospect of digging in.
But wait! We're almost out of that special cat food I buy at the vet's office...
There's always something, n'est pas?
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