22:41, hours later and after dinner, and after

budgeting and paying bills in the ledger and realizing I have to cut back on so much, so much… I’m on the floor, listening to rain and thinking about my morning coffee, the last k-cup left in the house.  Still aiming for 4AM.  Need simple objectives for my morning session.  3 salable pages.  Simple, singular, set.  Do a little cleaning in this home office.  I’ll make a written list, just not now.  Now I need the sound of the rain and this floor upon which the writer sits, the wind-down of day.

Realizing that lunch I could have done without, as with the sbux visit, as with the beer I got, even the haircut.  I know people that cut their own hair, why can’t I?  Again, this sprint to master my own personal finance isn’t sprint at all, but a slow jog, one of those types of jogs you see runners doing on a levy by water, like the paths by Monterey Bay.  Tomorrow, no spending.  And I mean NONE.  Well, I might use some change for a coffee from sbux, but just straight coffee, in the tumbler.  And I might even a bit fib, telling them it’s a refill so I can get away with only paying something like $0.50.  Something like that.  So what?  Do what you gotta do.  Starting to get tired.  Writing father running out of fuel, out of his inner quakes.  Becoming bored with my writing.  Maybe Mom’s right.. put down the pen for a bit.  OR, in now’s case, stop typing.   Maybe I’ll do that.  Yeah?  OR no.  What if I keep going, stay typing and not care if it’s going anywhere.  So where’s the value in that?  I guess to urge readers to just keep at it.  And by ‘it’ I mean the words.  My story now— the tired writing daddy, debating whether he should go to bed or watch the news, do something with himself other that just sit on the floor and pretend to write although he’s still very much writing.

Writing prompt for self, tomorrow morning: Dad life, my dad life, my life since becoming a daddy.  More in the morning.  I’m tapping out.  The day’s beat me.  I’m done, for sure now.  Now I become frustrated with myself and my typing, even the sound of the fingers hitting the keys annoys me.  The show my wife’s watching in the other room doesn’t help.  I need to close the day.  I’m a daddy and husband and all the fuck I want is quiet!  “Quiet”.  Huh, what an idea.  And at this point, being the writing daddy, it is just an idea sometimes.  Like right now.  Forgot I had this sparkling water, the one I bought on campus, in my bag.  A few good sips left to it.  So one, then another, then another, then done.  Sleep.  Oh sleep, you sound amazing.

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