Today

I woke up this morning to the sound of someone running up and down the stairs and past my bedroom. I opened my eyes and stared at my white and black floral pillow case. I smelled Mark’s smell because I was wearing this sweatshirt. I rolled over and looked at my room in the morning light. I went down stairs, got a bowl of cereal, and crawled back into bed. I watched last weeks Castle. And I realized how much I love Saturday mornings.

I talked to my parents. I found the piano tuner standing at the front door as I was standing in the kitchen with pajamas, bed head hair, and a mildly embarrassed look on my face. I made myself coffee. And now I'm “cleaning my room” while sitting on my bed watching 500 Days of Summer.

That’s what blogging about my life today amounts to.
Yep that’s it.

If I was a sophomore in college in 3012 sitting in Lit & Arts class and found this blog, I’d analyze what that means. What that means about the girl who wrote it. What that means about society, America in 2012, the world of 2012.

I’d probably notice how her senses were important. How she follows routine. How Saturday mornings were different than the rest of the week.

I’d wonder why there was nothing else important in her life to write about. Seriously? She wrote about her pillow? And her breakfast? Those were the only things worth writing about? Did people in 2012 hate life so much that they had to focus on the mundane details of life to escape the tragedies? Was focusing on the mundane details an escape? Was sitting in her room watching TV something she did because she wanted to? Or was it necessary? Was she hiding? Did she know she was hiding? Or was this whole thing supposed to be some kind of romantic description of the nothingness? Was she trying to find something beautiful? Was she tired of overlooking the simple joys? Is it both?

It’s weird when you can’t decide if you’re distracting yourself on purpose.