The sun, my interminable alarm clock, was sounding through the window this morning, when I felt the familiar pangs of writer’s guilt creeping like ivy up the lattice framework of my bones.  Slothful tendencies, like waking up late, don’t necessarily lead to an idle life.  But when warming up the bed becomes the most stressful pursuit of the day, I must concede that it has been far too long since I’ve written anything.  And there’s no excuse for it.  No kids.  No real job. No fake job either, although that sounds like something worth pursuing.  My poor writing degree is starting to smell like molding compost.

            After prying myself from my sheets, I turned on some music and did a morning work out—(dancing in front of the mirror.) Then I stripped down and stepped onto my sister’s scale.  It was feeding me some fiction so I took off my socks.  My traitorous body gained two pounds from jumping jacks.  To take my mind off the enigma of weight loss, I opened a notebook that I use occasionally as a diary and started scribbling what you’re reading here.  After I got a couple of paragraphs in, I realized that journaling is like dancing when no one’s around to see you doing the windmill.  And there’s no courage in that.  So here I am, submitting my writing and embarrassing life to you all.  May you earn some respite from your tediously productive lives by reading about someone who’s turned unemployment into a profession.  Enjoy.