My new job requires lots and lots of writing. (That's good!) But not the type of writing I particularly enjoy or would recommend to anyone. (That's bad!) It serves as great training for thinking quickly and writing on deadline. (That's good!) But my latest project has kept me up the last few nights, because it's just too goddamn easy to procrastinate and watch "Family Guy" reruns. (That's stupid!)
As the father of an active toddler, I've inured myself to the fatigue that has become a part of my existence. But when a man my age tries to pull off his daily routine on half the sleep he's used to, the Gods of Common Sense will at some point have to reach down and teach him a valuable life lesson.
As I type to you now, I am a tired, tired man. Dead-dog tired. Dead-menagerie tired. And, sadly, a little bereft. See, I just started a load of laundry out in our hallway washing machine, and I realized the washer wasn't quite full. So I returned to the apartment, grabbed a fistful of boxer shorts from the hamper, walked back out to the hallway ... and dumped the whole bundle down the garbage chute.
