Friday, December 2, 2016


Yesterday, I woke up late.

Okay, that’s a lie. I don’t remember what time I woke up yesterday. You’d think I would, it was only yesterday, and no matter how many grey hairs I might have on my chin and other places I don’t want to talk about, it’s not like I’m a thousand years old, after all. But I don’t. The only reason I remember what I ate for breakfast five minutes ago is because I eat the same thing every morning: three hard-boiled egg whites and six cups of black coffee.

I hard-boil the whole egg and throw the yellow parts away. I’m not insane.

And anyway, even if I did remember, there’s no such thing as “late.” I didn’t have anything to do or anywhere to be. The dog peed when I did at two o'clock a.m. (I also peed at midnight and 4:30 but I am not a thousand years old yet, goddamnit, just shockingly well-hydrated). And, thanks to a decades-long combination of Strategic Defense Initiatives, I have so far managed to fend off every heat-seeking-missile shot my way.

I don’t have any kids, is what I’m saying. See what I did there? It’s a little gross, I know, but if you’re on this ride for the long haul you’ll have to take it on the chin once in a while. I did.

So where was I? Oh yeah: yesterday.

Well, my write-gears may be all wrenched and rusty, but there’s one thing I do remember: if I don’t sit down at the keyboard when I first wake up, it doesn’t happen. I can (or used to could, anyway) pound out a page an hour between 5 and 8 a.m., but give me a quiet house and a blank slate from noon until the cows come home, I’ll spend three hours scrubbing baseboards and the next three watching out the window for the cows.

But I woke up late (maybe). And it was gonna rain later (maybe) and the dog hasn’t had a good walk in a while. And in this house a good walk means three hours so when we got home we had to eat (or I did) and then there was this puzzle on the kitchen table that was achingly almost done and Moshe Kasher was on the Pete Holmes podcast and that’s also three hours long and then it was time to eat again (for both of us). And then I did sit down to write but it wound up being all about doctors and death, and to my ears it was funny in a morbid sort of way (pull quote: “Who the hell is gonna find my body before the dog gets hungry enough to forget who I am (or used to be)?” Ha cha cha!) but nobody wants to read that shit at Christmastime and so I scrapped it. And then I watched Hannibal Buress in Edinburgh on Netflix and went to bed.

In other words: I promised on November 30 to write 500 words a day, and on December 1st I didn’t do it.

So buttons. I’m a thousand. I’m allowed.

If it counts for anything: I didn’t shower, either. Oh, and also plus?

There was a piece missing.

The End.

1 comment:

  1. I will not pressure you or make you feel bad. I haven't written a good word since Mother's Day. And writing every day was my secret New Years resolution. Which is why I don't make them :)