I don’t work on Fridays. I don’t have school, and I sit around the house and think of all the work I need to be doing… lecture notes for Wednesday, line-edits for workshop this Sunday, reading for my Keats class on Monday. Plus housework, and writing, and I should be going to the gym, too, to try and keep too much scar tissue from building up inside me, making the next surgeon’s job more difficult.

Have I mentioned that I hate my scars? When the bandages first came off, I loved them — they were so narrow and elegant and neat looking. But now the lower one has gotten all raised and bumpy and just horrible looking and I hate it. And there’s nothing I can do, really, except smear more cocoa butter on it, and feel its ugly wormy edges, and wish I’d somehow done better at forming scars, that my body didn’t have this embarrassing tendancy towards excess.

So anyway, I have plenty that I should be doing, and even plenty of fun, interesting books that I could be procrastinating with, but instead I’m sitting here, with the cat as usual, wishing I could think of something to do.