I’ve been trying to find the time to work on my abs. But it takes such research. First it was pilates and then slow carbs and then no gluten (psyche!) and then old school crunches and then the newest, side planks.

I’ve also been trying to find the time to work on my book. But there must be an outline and a proposal and research trips. Write 3,000 words, send them everywhere, write a dozen grants that will be rejected, back and forth with an agent who may or may not one day be mine, look everywhere for the answer: who can I write an email to, who do I have to wait to contact. I’m supposed to be thinking a lot about what kind of book my target audience would like to read. Really.

I need to work on my attitude. Because frankly, it fucking sucks. All this desperation and pleading and worrying about where I’ll live one month, two months, three months from now, I know I’m supposed to slow down and enjoy the day and smell the roses but I haven’t had my own garden in over a decade. I’m supposed to have a little faith, but there was only junkmail in the mailbox again. I’m supposed to be building a platform for chrissakes. My platform shouldn’t whine or get sad all the time and it should definitely not get in fights on the Internet at 3 in the morning about privilege. 

I’ve been working on going to bed earlier. I’ve been thinking about the work I need to do in that regard, anyway. Studies about abdominal fat and hours of rest and stress levels and productivity. Blue light causes insomnia, as does coffee and sugar. This shit cannot just be left up to chance, you know? Things I don’t do before bed: exercise, eat, read the comments, sketch out a budget, look at old photo albums. 

Speaking of budgets, I have been working up the courage to try and write one up. 

My stress level needs work, too. Maybe it’s the blue lights or my sensitivity to worrying about the ice caps and neonicitinoids and sending 15 emails for a $75 dollar paycheck and do my abs look sturdier yet? and how did three hours just slip away into “think pieces” (that don’t)? and that damn talking porcupine and his delicious pumpkin and I think I’ve been looking more jowly than before and the sneaking suspicion that two people I haven’t spoken with in over 20 years might be having an affair with one another–it’s so obvious in their subtweets–but thank god I can go back to enjoying English muffins and why doesn’t anyone care about all the dead fish and disappearing bees and that way too many people don’t understand how vaccines and Plan B and fracking work, but they want to pass laws about them anyway and really? How does South Carolina not have an official state fossil yet? How does my ex college roommate STILL not have a Facebook page?

I’m working on a theory about all my plans, about how they keep me planning and save me from doing, about how I stay busy and worried so I don’t have to risk feeling something other than busy or worried. It’s just a theory, but it’s on the list.  

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