So, I'm now realizing it is no longer April, but is May instead. I missed a baby shower, I haven't paid May's bills, and it's all because I am too short to change the page on the calendar. So, Dear Dave, keep an eye on the calendar. Love, Misty.
One deadline that has come and gone with April, when streams were ripe and swelled with rain, is The Cowboy Clock deadline. You may recall (mostly likely you may not recall) that I had given myself a deadline to finish the first draft by the end of April. It was May before I even realized the deadline had passed. That's the thing about me and deadlines; they pass and I let them.
I actually think this is progress. In my youth, there was no way on earth, heaven or hell, flood or high water that I would ever, I mean ever, let a deadline pass without making it. The fact that I'm writing this blog about deadlines might indicate that I'm not completely cured, but I think I've made a lot of progress in fighting the disease, call it a phobia, call it OCD. Whatever we call it, I don't got it no more.
The bad part about this is that I don't get anything done. I don't care about stuff. Any stuff. I go my whole day in a sort of dazed, unmotivated, apathetic stupor. That sounds awful until you look at the fact that I'm not depressed (or does that sound a little like depression?) and I don't worry myself sick, so sick, about things that don't matter. I have found that very, very few things matter.
So, will Sheriff find out who killed Andy? Sure. Probably sooner than later, too.
So, everyone take it easy. I know I will.