Melancholic Refections

I have had a lot of time to think this past month. The opportunites have been abundant-- while I watch Mythbusters on the Discovery channel in the morning (those two guys are hot), waiting for the mail (is it eleven yet?), on my morning bike rides (is that a branch or a dead snake?), making my little-girl bed, doing dishes, trolling CL for rooms and jobs, hanging out with my parents, thrifting, reading (aesthetics for its nutritive value and food writing for its entertainment qualities), sewing for the Zinefest and doing the dishes. I have come up with nothing. No ideas for the Submarine, no plots for Fat Camille, no innovative messenger bag designs, no get-rich-quick schemes, no career ideas, no grad school illuminations. Are they lurking behind the curtains, waiting for their cue, have they fled the building, is there something I forgot? Thinking requires more than time and mind-numbing activities. As I stare at my fat and flabby brain, lolling indolently on the laz-e-boy, I am deeply chagrined and at a loss. What else can I do? I am waiting for my fingerprints to come through so I can sub in the City. I am diligently looking for things (tho' I am succeeding more in the clothing department than I am in the job hunt). Is it because I don't have a desk? Is a desk a necessary accessory for thought? Pressure? Deadlines? I am hoping a job will come soon and rescue me.