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If you DO want to know, welcome to my blog |
| I wake up, to begin with. I fumble my phone around for a few minutes, inevitably dropping it; since my thumbs and first and second fingers have no feeling in the morning, it's an interesting adventure almost warranting a blog entry in and of itself. Once I reach under the bed or around the nightstand or in the dog's bed— wherever the Gods of Dropped Things have decided to hide it that particular morning— I turn the damn alarm off and stand up. After communicating with all the different parts of my body and determining the important parts are fully awake, I stumble through the house to let the dogs out. And back in— can't forget that part; they get quite judgmental if I forget that part. I fire up the Keurig, eat a bowl of Fruity Pebbles, and stare absently at my cuppajoe. Welcome to my morning; and welcome to the end of my goals for the day. I am not a goal-oriented person. Perhaps it's because I'm a Pisces, my head in the clouds and my feet in the water. (That sounds like someone itching to get struck be lightning, actually. Well...depends on the day.) Every Monday, I sit down to make a list of goals for "Weekly Goals"  . Then I sit there and think: "What do I want to get done? I'm sure they're looking for more than 'Take out the trash.' Or 'Let the dogs back in.'" So I commit to writing X number of reviews, flashes, words for longer pieces. Then I look at others' lists of goals and can't believe how far behind I am. I mean, some people want to do stuff, man! Like, beyond putting on pants.So I cogitate. What am I hoping to get done. I come up with:  . Nothing there. Then I realize: my goals aren't necessarily things I want to get done, but things I do not want done to me.  I don't want to get fired. In which case, I reckon I probably better hurry up and drink the coffee, definitely put on the pants, double-check to make sure the dogs are in, and get me ass to work.  I don't want to get yelled at, at home as much as at work— probably more so. Far worse than a honey-do list is a f***er-I-told-you-to-do list; they're probably just goals I probably forgot about, anyway. I don't want to wind up with a headache. This is areal thing. Unless I pound water all day, I get the damnedest headaches you can imagine. So I drink enough water and wind up pissing all day. I'm thinking of just posting my name on the urinal at work. ...I might make that one of next week's goals. I don't want to have to do things I don't want to do. Yeah, that's the adolescent that still lives inside me, the one that wants to pretend I'm 17 and have all the freedom with none of the responsibility. Still, it counts. My goals; I make 'em up, dammit.But what do I want to do or get done? Well that's the thing. Nothing! Nothing that comes to mind, anyway. For instance, on the weekend I prefer to live from minute to minute, doing whatever comes naturally. Write a little. Draw a little. Despise what I drew a lot and throw it away. Watch some TV. Try writing and watching TV and winding up curious as to why my story about unicorns now also contains a scene where a woman blew up her husband's car. Look for the TV remote to change the channel because this series of women who blow up their men's cars or lock them in freezers or stab them in the top of the head is starting to make me a little paranoid. Side-eye my wife, who is diligently working through a 27-point list of goals and starting mutter things that sound suspiciously like "where can I find some dynamite." Ya know; that kind of stuff. I dunno. I'm not even sure what my goal was with this blog entry. Perhaps the entry itself was a goal? Maybe. Well, trying to remember whether I really had a point to all this is a goal for tomorrow. As far as today—shit, that's the one I forgot. I have to go put on some pants! |
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