Winter's Free Writing....

And I begin it all with a stream of consciousness from January...

I know what it is to be a bump on a log, a couch potato. Man is not an island unto himself. Watching reality tv and people who are so pathetic and who’s lives make me feel good about myself (albeit temporarily.) Garlic French fry stuck to my forehead, magazines spread all around, empty cups and cans, wrappers, dirty blanket. Talking to no one (texting doesn’t count as it’s not aloud) save for my cat, and THAT’S sane and normal. Feeling sad, depressed, or like I should be sad and depressed… when’s the next show on, what’s a good show to have on while reading. What do I want to even do with my life. Maybe this is the cold weather—who WANTS to go out in cold weather. I can make a list of things I will go out and do in the warm weather: jogging, tennis, walks, biking, attend ball games. Library. I’ll run 2x a day in the warm weather—so pumped to do that now, I wonder what it is that happens between this place and that that by the time that then is NOW, I really don’t want to do that anymore so much. Plenty that I feel obliged to do, but that makes it “work”. But without work I feel unfulfilled and that the day is a waste. I need something to look forward to. Fighting the bitter cold to come to work, it seems like such a nicer, more pleasant choice to not have to come in to work—to be able to stay cocooned away in my calm, comfortable, safe place inside a blankly (albeit perhaps a dirty one). But then the email comes, and graciousness, it’s good to have a job. That’s secure. Mostly.