Scooby-dooby-doo, where are you?

Is my silence beguiling or unnoticed?

Purely unintentional, my dear Reader. I blame my friend, Jake. He made me promise to stop with the self-indulgent introspection and get back to, well, whatever else it is I write.

To that end, I've been painting my bathroom and mulling. So far I've only managed to scrape the surface of why we repeat behaviors that so obviously create discomfort. I do not enjoy painting. I'm not particularly good at it. I can't cut in a wall with a straight line across the ceiling. And yet, once again, I am rolling and wondering, "why do I always choose the hottest day to paint? Do I enjoy sweltering heat in a confined space? And is it the incessant rolling of sweat between my boobs, or perhaps the gross feeling of my shorts sticking to my ass that is so unmemorable that I haven't learned this lesson yet?"

Repeating behavior... y'all thought I was going to talk about booze, huh! Or maybe bad relationship choices! I suppose I could but frankly, it feels a little obvious. [Translation: I don't have the kind of time it would take for me to wade through my drunken debauchery or failed relationships even though they'd surely be great fodder for gossip and snickering - which is fun!]

So, then. I'll be getting back to it. If you need me, I'll be in the bathroom...