CHOCOLATE THERAPY SOUP

I hit a wall.

Figuritively speaking, that is.

After only catching nine hours of sleep in three nights, in addition to writing late into the wee hours of the morning continuously for going on a month, I had to go to bed, go directly to bed, passing up my 40 Days of Writing entirely last night.

I was past exhausted.  My husband said I looked not unlike a very old houndog, my eyeballs drooping down to my nostrils. (Thank you, darling.)

But he was right. I looked and felt like hell.

Why must it be so difficult to fit in time for writing?  It's what I love. It's what I do best.  All day every day at my day job (hence, the term), I copy and paste numbers. While I appreciate the job and the benefits, and am thankful for them, it is hard to feel passion for what I am doing right now.

Writing is my passion. But I have to squeeze it in between copying and pasting numbers for eight hours a day, five days a week and schlepping groceries (my night job), for three hours a night, three nights a week and every Saturday morning. and damn it, no way around it...I need at least six hours of sleep a night.  Should have eight.

They say, "Do what you love, the money will follow."

I wish.

Was I ranting just now?  Oops. Sorry.

Anyway, about last night...I am disappointed in myself that I did not write. But like I said, I had no choice.

Had to sleep.

I was so overtired, of course, I could not sleep. So I took two Excedrin PM, ate half pint of Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Therapy, and conked out. (Yes. A half pint. I wanted Chunky Monkey, but my husband swore they were out.)

John had put the yummy frozen concoction in the fridge for a moment to soften it a bit. I swallowed two Excedrin PM, grabbed the carton of Chocolate Therapy out of the fridge, ripped off the protective plastic, grabbed a spoon and had at it. Ahhhh.

"I will have to buy you a new carton of Chocolate Therapy," my husband just informed me this morning.

"Oh, did you eat what was left?" I asked, upon waking refreshed and revitalized after almost nine glorious hours of sleep.

"Um, no," he said.

 Apparently, in my fatigue, I put Ben and Jerry right back where I found them, in the fridge, not the freezer. The boys were nothing but Chocolate Therapy soup by this morning.

Oy.