It’s 10 in the morning. My throat is threatening open revolution; looks like the Airborne and liquids are about to lose the battle against the evil bug Anne’s been wrestling with since Christmas Eve. Next time the wife gets sick, I’m just going to make out with her right away and get it the infection out of the way. At least there would be smoochies.
My desk at home is swept clean, though the papers, catalogs and assorted crap simply moved to the futon. There’s about seven months’ worth of stuff to go through, but I have motivation: Scott’s going to crash on our futon tonight, so it must be done. And I have to get down to Casa del Mar by 4 for wedding stuff. Plus, there’s shaving, primping, tuxedo donning, the whole enchilada. I am a man with a deadline, people, and I will not be deterred.
I’ve spent the last week in a downward glide of self-pity (Oh, I’ll never make it to Ironman, I can’t write anything worth a damn, I suck, blah, blah, blah), and that’s fine. Little dips are nothing to get worked up about, especially after cruising along so steadily since June. But that bullshit ends NOW, because I’ve got a room to clean, stories to write, and a ceremony to officiate. Self-pity precludes ass kicking, and 2008 is all about kicking nothing but ass: applying to Clarion, rocking Ironman, planting mighty tomatoes, kicking a bunch of corrupt and venal assclowns to the curb and getting their greasy mitts away from the keys to the kingdom.
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.