Song of Myself
[posted by Callimachus]
Labor Day weekend comes. I read guys who write about being a stay-at-home dad married to a working wife. And about guys with jobs. And they debate who is the more manly. I own you bitchez. I'm John Wayne Sergeant York Shaft. I stay at home and get pissed on and screamed at by an infant for eight hours straight while the wife works. Then I go into my newspaper job and get pissed on and screamed at by my boss and the public for the next nine hours. Double espressos are my rocket fuel. When the wellness coach walks past my desk at work, I tell him to keep walking, unless he's bringing donuts this time.
With the seven hours left, I sleep, and burn the stubs of what used to be my driving obsessions in life.
Which explains why my blog has become a stumbling mess of incoherence, a bag of shattered mirrors.
Photographic evidence of what's going on when I think of things to write here.
Labor Day weekend comes. I read guys who write about being a stay-at-home dad married to a working wife. And about guys with jobs. And they debate who is the more manly. I own you bitchez. I'm John Wayne Sergeant York Shaft. I stay at home and get pissed on and screamed at by an infant for eight hours straight while the wife works. Then I go into my newspaper job and get pissed on and screamed at by my boss and the public for the next nine hours. Double espressos are my rocket fuel. When the wellness coach walks past my desk at work, I tell him to keep walking, unless he's bringing donuts this time.
With the seven hours left, I sleep, and burn the stubs of what used to be my driving obsessions in life.
Which explains why my blog has become a stumbling mess of incoherence, a bag of shattered mirrors.
Photographic evidence of what's going on when I think of things to write here.
