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Dear Diary,

So now it's July. Funny, where the time goes. I feel like the summer just began.

I can tell it's half over, of course, even without my withered gardenias greeting me in the mornings. My tolerance for shenanigans is pretty low. And my patience.

I spent most of the day in bed.

"I'm having bad memories," Matchstick said. I told him I'd shake it off.

I've had a good deal of success in the office. Boxes have gone out, floor space is available. I guess I found my focus, or my follow-through, because I had perfect direction and clarity.

See that box with the game? Empty it.
See that pile of wires and tool? Sort it.
Push out the trash. Now put it on the porch.
Now take a break. Write something for fun.
Empty that other box, the one with the baseball glove.

Yesterday my drink fell and exploded across the carpet; today I finally scrubbed it up. Follow-through wanted me to clean it right then. But I just couldn't. It was just too much.

Baby steps.

And I've gotten all the cat hair off of the velvet couch, so I know my brain will start working soon. I can't read without that couch. Can't think, can't write without it. The whole time I was working on it, though, I had this feeling like I wasn't alone.

I kept waiting for something to grab my toes, you know? I looked, once and again, but never saw anything. Well, nothing but this one-eared dog. I didn't grab it right away, because I was trying to get the couch done so I could try for a nap.

And when I went back later, it was gone.

I guess Tater came in and picked it up. She's been getting in to everything, lately.