Heaven forbid I try and do things for myself on the weekend.

In a matter of moments, what should have been a productive day ended up being a day spent doing crap for other people, running around places I didn’t need to go.

I try to go with the flow, but it seems I can’t find even five minutes to read or meditate without interruption.

It’s like there’s a camera on me and the second I try to do something for myself, the vultures come in, with their demands and their conversations and their places to be, things to do.

Fuck, man. I just want to spend the day reading and writing. Maybe a video game for thirty minutes and a nice movie to top it off. A good dinner. Some nice sex.

I used to do those exercises where you write out your ideal day, and it was always some travelling orgy that spanned the globe and featured a dozen different daring activities – snowboarding, skydiving, scuba, riding elephants and tigers and bears, oh my.

If I wrote it now, it would writing in the morning, reading in the afternoon, some exercise and meditation, followed up by a nice dinner with my wife and some sweaty alone time (with her, obviously). That’s it. A glass of wine and some chocolate. Maybe an old fashioned and a cigar if I was being really cheeky.

I wouldn’t even leave the house, except maybe to sit on the porch or the deck.


Target: 1500 words
Written: 1170 words, novel: Father Lightning

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