I really don't want to post today. Not at all. I've been writing about Sylvia Plath all day, and I don't really have any other words left, but the little voice inside of me keeps pushing me to do it anyway. I don't know why I'm listening. It's not like the NaBloPoMo police are going to knock on the door at midnight and haul me in for my lack of blogging. But still, I am here typing.
That voice loves to nag me. It is the same voice that tells me I need to keep house better, reminds me I'm not exercising enough, prods me to fret over grades (both mine and my children's), and constantly whispers that no matter what I do it's never enough. That voice is torture.
I realize this post is not remotely funny, or interesting, or enlightening. Believe me, I know that. But it is a post nonetheless, and maybe that voice will shut up now - at least for a few minutes.