Mediocrity at its finest.

The tiny puddle of creative juices that I have claim on seems to have dried up in the summer heat. This frustrates me to a great degree, for I still have the desire to write something. I bring up a blank post form time after time, willing my fingers to type something that is at least slightly logical and a little bit coherent. But, life is full of disappointments.

So, my thoughts and doings have been reduced to a numbered list. While the writer in me (Am I allowed to say that? I feel as though I sound pompous and like I take myself far more seriously than I actually do when I refer to myself as a "writer.") doesn't particularly care for this format, the rest of me is delighted, as I do love to make lists.

1. I get far too attached to fictional characters. It is a problem. I feel so deeply for them that I sometimes allow myself to forget that they don't actually exist outside of the pages of a book or the TV screen.
2. On Friday night, the temperature dropped and it was very chilly at nighttime. While I very much dislike being cold, I was quite glad when my room was too cold at bedtime, as I got to curl up under a cocoon of blankets and pillows, snug, safe, and secure.
3. As a result of an intentional (and worthwhile) overdose of Downton Abbey, I have found myself thinking in a British accent. I rather like it, as it makes the voice in my head sound much more refined, sophisticated, and intelligent.
4. My affinity for ice cream recently allowed me to be able to keep a surprise party a very big surprise for newly 17-year-old Maddie. I am very proud of myself for remaining calm, cool, and collected, and for being deemed worthy of being an accomplice in the plot.
5. Until about fifteen minutes ago, I was about halfway through three books on my summer reading list. I just finished Prisoner of Azkaban and have vowed not to begin another book until I have completed Anne of Green Gables and Jane Eyre.