Pretty much my day to day existence.
Like most people, most of my days are conspicuously unspectacular. I wake up, check emails, read “The New Yorker” over granola, do a few work calls, perhaps write some snappy copy in my jammies — a luxury of working for myself. The day trudges on. I’ll eat my lunch while reading more “New Yorker” or might plop down in front of the TV and peruse my mid-day options. Ooh, Chopped! Come afternoon, I surf some porn, wash dishes, might prep dinner, do some more work, shower.
There’s something banal about the whole affair. I’m not depressed or excited. Occasionally, I’m antsy with a general sense of discontent as if I should be doing something more engaging, something that enraptures me. More often, I just do what I do with neither malaise nor vim. I might say there is an understated contentment to my days but I’m afraid that would…
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