And just like that, back to the day job. Hopefully (and I say this with everything crossed including a few internal organs which is very, very painful but shows my utter commitment to this being true), this is going to be the last one for a while, but it's only one week in and already I'm hiding the sharp knives. I don't have a clue how people do this for their entire lives. Really. I don't get it. If someone wants to explain it to me, then ... actually, don't bother. I'll find the sharp knives I've hidden faster than you can convince me that being here until I shuffle off to the retirement home is a good thing.
Have to go. File something. Look like I’m working while trying to figure out Scene Three of my new play. Googling writers who are more productive than I am and beating myself up for not being more like them. File something else. Try and kill myself with a papercut from my filing. Walk around the block while convincing myself that death by papercut is not the way I should go. Practice my smile when someone calls playwriting 'a wonderful hobby'. Some combination of the above. Welcome to my days.
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