I Prefer Writing to Working
It’s 9:30 AM(!) and I think I’ve already accomplished more in those two hours than some I know will do all day. I’ve taken my car to the mechanics, cleaned half my bathroom (granted it’s rather small), and read a chapter in Rip It Up and Start Again (yay for no wave!). I’m waiting for the worker drones to open up shop here, so I can purchase some “second-half-of-the-bathroom-cleaning” music.
Unable/unwilling to compromise, I bludgeon/bewilder all my co-workers/associates by waking up early and going to bed late. Tangentially unsound blogs don’t write themselves folks!
One co-worker noted that she had gone to bed early the night before. On the same page myself, I noted I too, had allowed myself to doze off earlier than usual.
“Around eleven,” I told her.
“Jesus,” she replied, “that’s late for me!”
(It should be noted that we’re both required to be at work at six in the morning. So you don’t think we’re some weird crew of middle-aged not-so youths.)
She’s younger then I am, and already has old people routines ingrained in her system! I normally get four hours of sleep a night, taking it easy on the weekends with six-seven per day! Six to seven hours! I know, I know, all that wasted time!
All this made me realize I now know how I want to die. Not by immolation or suffocation, but by heart attack. I want my heart to explode from overload/exhaustion. With my brain triumphantly gazing down, as my last seconds wind down, gloating, Yeah, I told you I’d fucking win.
(It goes without saying that while I’d never subscribe to the one God reigning above, Middle-aged mysticism, I do subscribe to the mind/body dichotomy they helped establish. What can I say? I view all my internal organs in direct competition with each other for my affection. ‘Cuz, damn it, I’m worth it.)