I’m tired and hungry. My back is killing me from slouching over this keyboard for too long. And my head is pounding.
I’m done for the night.
Shut-off the light. Pick-up some takeout. Pair it with a soothing Cabernet, and some Motrin for good measure.
Tomorrow’s a new day. A fresh start.
Driving back home, my head—still throbbing—is over taking James Taylor on the radio.
Eh. Just remnants from a good day’s work. Turn JT up a tad. Sing softly to surpress it.
Almost home. Just five more minutes. No problem.
The remnants are becoming notions. No. Please, no. Not tonight.
“Rock-a-bye sweet baby James”
Pull-in. the smell of the sub is wafting from the bag. Keys tossed to the counter. A long pour of red. TV on. Feet up. Sleep will follow soon.
First bite. First sip. Already my headache is subsiding.
Wait, no. There it is. Shit.
A full sentence.
I’m up for another four hours.