Sun shining on an empty driveway

I make lists of things to write about that I never seem to get around to. I just write it down, fold it up, and tell myself I'll do it later. But invariably a funk sets in, and I no longer care anything about what I cared enough about to write down to remember to write about.
That last sentence was just confusing enough to amuse me, so it stays.
I bought a briefcase at an estate sale earlier for $2.50 and they said they didn't know the combination, but I closed the lock, moved the numbers around, and it seemed to open right up when I got back to 000, so I'm gonna go ahead and assume that's the combination.
Now if I could only figure out how to change it to something a little harder to figure out... something like 123.
I wanted to write about how I almost burned down my Aunt's kitchen yesterday, but I already wrote about that last night. I'll just quote myself:

"I'm feeling a little better today. Little did I know, my uncle is an extremely good pep-talker. He should consider a career in motivational speaking.
I almost burned down my Aunt's kitchen making potato chips. Should have just bought a bag of Lay's.
I thought I would handle myself a little better in a kitchen crisis, what with all my restaurant experience, but as the flames rose from the stove top and from inside the oven, I couldn't for the life of me remember what to do. I basically just ran around the kitchen squealing at such a pitch that only the dogs could hear me, trying to remember what you're supposed to use to put out grease fires.
"Salt!...No"
"Sugar!...No."
"Water!...No." I'm remembering countless training videos which instruct you to never ever put water on a grease fire. I'm remembering these as I'm filling up a bowl with water, preparing to pour. Thank god my uncle's brother had the calm sense to grab a pot lid to stiffle the fire until we figured out what to do. Thank god some genius shouted "BAKING SODA!!!!" before I caused and even bigger calamity with my bowl of H20.
Needless to say, an inch or two has been sawed off the legs of my shining kitchen pedestal. But don't worry, I'm not so much humbled as embarrassed, but that will pass, and I'll have that spring in my strut back in no time."

There it is...just saved myself alot of work.
The dryer, which is right next to my temporary room, makes this noise that can only be described as the noise that the nob on the washin machine makes when you turn it so you can start a cycle. But for some reason the dryer is making this sound every two seconds, and now it's doing this squeal like a rusty swing set, and I think I'm going to snap any second.
And by snap, I mean snap along to the rhythm of the dryer. Man oh man, that is a hip tune!
No but seriously, I'd rather wear dirty clothes, or clothes crispened by sun drying for the rest of my life than listen to that sound. It is maddening.

Now I'm trying to drown it all out with some Brand New. I'm listening to this for one line, which I know hearing will quell my melancholy malady, for a while anyway.

"Every line is about who I don't want to write about any more."

Every word of every sentence is a side step of everything I want to say that I've already said. Every period marking the end of every sentence is occasion for me to pause, turn my head to the right, and see a still empty driveway. Every breath is a concentrated act to control the welling from my gut to my esophagus to my throat. Every thought is skewed and convoluted. I wish I could say I'm through with it. But I'm not a liar.

"Holding on to your grudge, oh it's so hard to have someone to love."

This is too long.