Tomorrow morning, the writer’s a runner, running at least 8 miles on treadmill and coming home to be daddy and get babies school-ready. Then, tasting at another property with master sommelier person in the morning, first thing. In the morning. The book is done, I’m convinced. Searching for title. What’s the book about. IT’s a memoir? Collection of sketches? Times and sitting as this, on floor with glass before bed telling self I’ll get up early to run but I might push snooze, and snooze, push snooze and bed, sleep, ignore. Fuck… I did it again?
Like myself better when I’m a bitter wine blogger, attacking the industry and all the offices, the management, and… no, I don’t. IS this the last glass? Yes. I swear. Running, in hours’ matter.