People have asked me a lot of good questions today:
1. What do you think you're doing?
2. Are you sure you're finished?
3. Why are you sitting there wearing headphones that are attached to nothing? (Sadly, I hadn't realized that they weren't attached to anything and hadn't even remembered I was wearing them. I felt weird when it was pointed out to me, like I'd just discovered I was one of those people who wears tin foil hats to ward off alien thought-reading.)
My least favorite, however, was a jovial
4. What are you doing for the rest of your life?
It was followed by an invitation to do something asinine that would only take the rest of my life if I was assassinated immediately following it. Although it (I can't even remember what it was, that's how lame it was) was so stupid that I might have come up with a way to kill myself just to end the activity.
But the reason I didn't like the question wasn't that I knew it would be followed by a bad suggestion that I would have to respond to with a fake smile and a lot of begging off. I didn't like it because of the sickening little thrill of uncertainty that hit me as soon as I heard it. Like I'd forgotten to do something, but the something wasn't turning off the iron or feeding the cat. The something - the SOMETHING - was like I'd forgotten to be born in the right century, or forgotten to set my alarm on the day I was supposed to launch into space. The SOMETHING was huge, squeezing my throat so it was hard to breathe or swallow, and I didn't even know what it was.
That feeling only lasted a moment, and then I was all "that's so sweet, but I can't make it on account of my cat's hamster's appendectomy surgery" or something. I forget. So now I'm huddled around a box of Reece's Pieces, frantically banging away at my keyboard, trying to turn a muddled little story into SOMETHING. Can an armful of words turn into SOMETHING? Heck ya, they can. Just see my last post.