I wonder if I should write something.
I don't really want to write something.
If I did decide to write something, would it require me to think?
I don't really want to think.
Unless I can think about french fries, or my bed, or the way the fan just spins round and round and round and...
Okay, so this won't work. Perhaps I should think on a deeper level.
Ketchup. Mmmm. And vinegar. No, not vinegar. Mayonnaise. Oh yeah, mayo. Let's throw some mayo on those suckers.
Oh crap, deeper thoughts... deeper...
Deep wells. Wells are deep.
What if the well on Lost actually represents the depth of suffering man must aspire to endure...
Okay, too deep (plus, I just threw some deep-sounding words together and possess no idea as to what I just said).
Balance. I need some kind of balance.
I could write about how I dream of changing the world (perhaps in my fifth grade composition notebook). How sometimes I just can't seem to settle down or stop thinking about what to do with my life and my family that will somehow make a difference.
Or I could explain that some days I am so content with peanut butter sandwiches and spit-up covered couches and wet, milky kisses that I don't want to move an inch.
Perhaps I should think about bed after all.
The tickle of a cool breeze through the soft folds of my t-shirt sheets. (Yes, I am an adult with two children and I love myself some t-shirt sheets. So what?)
Or that moment right before you drop off where you feel all floaty and fight sleep just to enjoy the knowledge that it awaits on the other side of your heavy eyelids.
Oh, and how about when you're fading in and out and notice something wet on your pillow that you soon realize is just a tiny spot of your own drool. But you are so happy that after 15 hours of spoon-feeding babies and chasing toddlers and scrubbing questionable brown gunk from the corner of the bathtub you are actually relaxed enough to drool, you just turn over and go to sleep, right there in a mini pool of your own saliva.