Or A No Life Loser

Last week I had a few days where the place I lived would be completely empty and devoid of inhabitants. For me, this is a rare occurrence and I knew I had to make the most of it. “Make the most of it” usually means: watch loads of porn (The term,‘loads’ used intentionally.), eat ice cream directly out of the carton and write.

The days of this freedom fell on a Wednesday/Thursday/Friday/Saturday.

I called in sick on Friday.

I didn’t call in sick so that I could have a clandestine meeting in a reasonably priced motel room with an internet boyfriend in the middle of the afternoon. I didn’t call in sick so that I could go see a matinee. I didn’t call in sick so that I could spend my day at the mall or at the beach or getting drunk at the mall or the beach.

I called in sick so that I could stay home and write all day.

I woke up. I left a message for my boss. I made coffee. I ‘assumed the position,’ i.e. sat on chaise lounge, laptop on lap, fingers on keyboard. And I wrote.

I wrote all day. (With the necessary exceptions for bathroom, food and fucking around on the internet breaks.)

I didn’t even change out of my pajamas. At about 5 p.m. I realized I hadn’t even brushed my teeth!

After dinner, I allowed myself to stop sculpting the piece I had been massaging all day long and watch a movie and eat ice cream out of the carton, finishing the day off with some “free internet sites” that are best viewed with both eyes and one hand.

Saturday was a beautiful day. I really should’ve gone running at the beach. I should’ve planted a garden. I should’ve taken a walk at the park. But I didn’t. Saturday was a basic repeat of Friday. With the exception of letting myself lie outside on a beach towel taking in about an hour’s worth of rays, I spent the majority of the day writing.

It was on Sunday when I had to start thinking about work the next day and figuring out what dramatic details of Friday’s ‘sudden stomach ailment’ I would have tell my boss when I realized what I had done. I had called in sick to my job that PAYS ME MONEY so I could stay home and do something I love that PAYS ME NO MONEY. I gave myself a day off of work where I could have done ANYTHING and I chose to sit on a couch, in my pajamas and morning breath, all by myself, so that I could write. I did that for TWO DAYS. And I thought to myself, what does this mean?

And my answer to myself was, I guess it means you are a writer.


  1. Kiss me on the cheek and I will let you write forever.

  2. That sounds like a lovely way to spend a weekend.

  3. Either of the ones under your pants, sugarbutt.

  4. It's such a nice thing to give yourself up to, writing. Just you and a computer. Seems more real and authentic than going into some/any job where there is probably some level of authenticity around but also a fundamental amount of bullshit. I would probably suffer from an imbalance with the porn.

  5. assume the position...
    it's like I just turn the computer on before the shower on a weekend and still sit there half dressed by the evening... wish I could be doing something as productive as the writing you do for all that time, but mostly mini blogs and playing dumb internet games ;)