Last night, I was clicking away pretty good at a story I need to finish. Television (and even radio) off, Tom at work, cats... well... not doing anything I couldn't ignore. The silence was speaking clearly to me. At around midnight, though, I thought, "I should go to bed." I had been up even later Sunday night for the same reason and it was starting to wear on me a little. I could have gone another hour easily, maybe two, maybe more, but then I would be droopy at work the next day.
This sort of thing was much more clear to me when my day job was walking barefoot on broken glass. I suppose I should thank Tyson for giving me that much, anyway. Back in those days, I could easily respond to that first twinge with, "hell with those asshats. If I shuffle through the day without knowing where I am, it'll be a blessing, and if only half my brain is working, it'll still be more than I owe them." But I kinda like this job. I kinda like the people, even.
So I went to bed telling myself that I got some work done tonight, and this way I could get up tomorrow, have a good day at the job, come home, and work some more. Hah. I slept through my alarm, I was late, and I'm still groggy after five cups of coffee. Maybe I'll get some writing done afterward, maybe not. So much for being responsible. After all, would it really have mattered if I had been a little more groggy today? I end up napping or going to bed early either way, right?
So let me just say thanks again, Tyson. I'll try to keep you in mind whenever I forget the importance of not giving a shit. Cheers.