Wanting.

There are so many things I want. And it's not material things. Ok, maybe some of the things are material things. Frames to put photos in, thirty of them, so the hallway isn't so bloody white. Drives me insane. A vacuum that actually sucks instead of my Kirby circa 1950. A job, with health insurance and a bi-monthly paycheck. Chooks that actually stay IN the chook pen. Time to make some anzac biscuits. A bloke to put together the lovely garden table I was given. Or alternately to find that blooming spanner so I could put the damn table together myself. At least ten games of spades with my nutty kids. Non offensive words to say when someone asks if I like the delivery guy they sent me. I did not, he was so nice, probably I should like that guy, the nice one, but I don't, I prefer scruffy and just a wee bit of "you just don't know". The list goes on and on.

The wanting continues. So I wash clothes and write my assignments, and work and work. And try not to go nutso, because crazy is one thing, but nutso that involves stright jackets and padded rooms and heavy regulated meds.

Where is the fun in that?