So I was wandering around Binghamton on my way home from Vestal tonight, shopping for father's day and just trying to think of stuff to do in general so I wouldn't have to come back here and be bored again... When suddenly I started thinking about books and got the distinct urge to write. I didn't know what, I just really really wanted to write. It seemed like forever ago since the last time I just sat down and wrote something worth keeping. So I hurried to check out and drove home in the rain with the radio blasting, thinking the whole way about how I was going to plan out some amazing plotline and write this really stirring, thought-provoking, philosophical, character-driven story that I would be so proud of.

Of course, I didn't actually plan it, I just planned that I was going to plan it. When I got home.

So now here I am, at home, staring at a blank notebook wondering what the hell I was thinking. And wishing I hadn't been in such a rush to leave Vestal so I could've remembered to bring some charcoal and chalk for my collage. Or remembered to get some cash from the ATM. Or gotten the hair conditioner I so desperately need right now. Or brought something back to wear to work tomorrow.

Couldn't I at least have had the presence of mind to stop at a Starbucks and write instead? At least somewhere where there are people around to use as inspiration. Instead me sitting alone inside this huge empty house and its silent, brooding atmosphere, staring out the windows at the gloomy rain-blurred view.

Now seems like a pretty good time to curl up on the couch with a movie.

Why do my days so often come to this?