Nothing to Write About

I feel like I have nothing to write about. I’m sitting at my desk listening to a podcast and trying to eat a little pureed chicken. I have nothing to write about. I am so focused on getting my 60 ounces of liquids and 60 grams of protein in each day that I haven’t really worried about anything other than binge watching some TV. I’ve also spent a ton of time stressing over my mother’s situation, but I am not sharing that today so sorry not sorry.

I haven’t payed any attention to the NHL playoffs and I’ve barely payed attention to baseball, beyond checking the Red Sox scores once a day. I did finally finish reading Steve Hackett’s autobiography. There wasn’t a whole lot of detail there, but it was still a good read. I’m thinking Mike Rutherford’s book might be next. Get some of that Charterhouse story and all that.

I weighed myself today. Remember the other day when I wrote something about how I didn’t want to weigh myself all of the time? Yeah, I weighed myself again. If the scale I keep in the bedroom is accurate I have lost 60 pounds since January 19th. That is insane.

Should I play guitar after I post this meandering crap of a post? Jen is working in her office and Harry is working at his new job so why not just make a little noise on my own? I don’t know. I’m a little wary of it for some reason. I don’t know why. It’s a weird feeling. I don’t know.

Maybe I’ll goof around with the blog and see if I can find a new theme and layout. Maybe I’ll do that for a while, maybe not. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll sneak in some Breaking Bad. I only have about half of the final season left to go. Maybe I’ll check iBooks and see how much Mike Rutherfords’ book costs.