This is one of those posts that I'm not sure I'll actually, well, post. At the moment I am feeling like I have been run over by a bus. Not that I've ever been run over by a bus; I'm imagining that one. I just learned I have one extra house to clean tomorrow that I didn't know I had, plus the usual assortment of gigs, and the very thought is making me so depressed I could fling myself out my second-story window. It's not so bad to clean, really, so I'm not sure what this is all about. Could be that it feels lately like it never stops. This whole ride. The kids (who have been driving me completely bananas), the house (always in a state of semi-destruction), the work (and we're looking for more). I just never feel like I have enough time to get my head together. It's one interruption after the next until bedtime, every day. Then up too early because it's dark too late and start again. I hate all of this: the chaos, the noise, the confusion, the exhaustion. I just don't feel like I can ever catch up. Worse, I know that what I need to feel caught up is about fifteen years in the future, and that is not a happy thought. Some people just bounce right along with the endless demands of life. I'm not one of those people. Today, right after I found out about my additional work load, Scott pointed out that I had today "off". I guess if you figure that getting up, getting the kids to school, taking Maya right back home after she puked all over her shoes, doing my Jazzercise hour, paying bills, cleaning the house, picking up Jordan, helping Jordan make Valentine's decorations with which he is obsessed, cooking dinner, then going to a class is having the day off, then sure, I have. Whatever. I will not launch into a husband-bash, though it's tempting just to take the heat off. I'm just weary. I hate f-ing January. I hate when it's all bright sun on an endless expanse of blind snow. That's what my life feels like: endless. Blind. And merciless.