I spent the last two weeks as a temporary bachelor. Some things are great: I can sleep diagonal in the bed. I can write without interruption. I finished up a Netflix series that is not universally popular in my household. But other things are less great: I guess I actually like the man I married, so I wanted him to be around. I had to cook for myself. Both taking out the recycling and garbage AND bringing the cans in is so much work.
I know, you don’t care about my extraordinarily minor problems. What about your fucking writing? Ah, yes, writing. Turns out being alone is excellent for your writing. I knew this from grad school, of course. But being alone without feeling unloved is even better.
I’ve switched two sections. My pain-in-the-ass section has only two small bits with major problems. It used to have a lot more. The whole thing is riddled with minor problems, but that’s par for the course. I don’t hate it. I am seeing resonance between chapters. [Management: Indy refuses to apologize for the mixed metaphor.]
I’ve learned how to make curried noodles.
Now I’ve got to get the fuck back to work. You too, people, you too!