So I’m laying in bed last night. With a preschooler’s feet in the small of my back. (Ella has been sleeping upstairs, in her sister’s bed, lately so Amelia has planted herself in my bed. Nice.) And I realized that I was going to make an attempt at a post every day in November. So, maybe I can make it every other day? Only even days?
I have a confession. I’ve been making out with Netflix. And itunes. And drooling over Nook. Apparently, my brain thinks that I have more time than I actually do.
Okay, maybe not making out. But it sure feels like the walk of shame when I realize that I spent a good chunk of my night rating all the movies I’ve ever seen in an attempt to find that one movie that I’ve been missing all my life.
I’m a slut. A slut for entertainment gadgets. Oooo, shiny object.
I don’t actually have the sense of entitlement that God gave an eighth grader. It just seems that way. I get like this when I work all the time. I feel like I should get something for all those hours. Instead of depositing the check into the account that pays the bills that keeps us fed and housed and clothed. I would like something to show for it. I need the instant gratification.
Lord knows I’m not getting that anywhere else. I may as well buy a minute of distraction.
Because there’s definitely something missing. And if I stick my tongue down itunes’ throat, I might find it.