“Remoted – Hybrid” – Day 800 (Wednesday) – 800-what?

Hitting the 800^th consecutive day of daily writing seems like it should feel like more important. More impressive. Maybe spectacular fireworks exploding in the sky impressive. Mostly it just feels like another anticlimactic ordinary Wednesday.

There was the full day of working in the office where some things got done and others suffered setbacks. There was a quick break with a quick visit to the library to check for a book I wasn’t able to buy because it isn’t available anywhere the book store checked to order it for me. The library delivered, and on the way back to work I had time to sit on a bench and read a few pages. A book where an entire chapter fills half a page (Chapter 2 of Satori in Paris) and two novels fit into 238 pages is my cup of tea. Thank you, Jack Kerouac and Satori in Paris and Pic. As a technical point, shouldn't these two "novels" be called "novellas"? Just wondering.

The work day concluded and was followed by arriving home for the office day ritual of picking up dog poo from the kitchen floor potty pads. To his credit, for a blind dog Winston really sticks the landing on the potty pads and for that I am appreciative.

There was the daily installment of begging Winnie to eat his dinner and then foraging through the refrigerator and the cabinets for my own. The foraging, as often happens, was accompanied by a Q&A monologue of all the things I didn’t feel like eating. Pasta? Nah. Ramen? No. Salad? There was enough of that for lunch. French toast, a sandwich, canned candied yams? Nope, nope, nope. The final decision was a hot dog and roll cooked in a fry pan with butter and dressed with relish, mustard, and ketchup in the bun first. 

I even forgot it was day 800 until I sat down to write, an activity which feels like a chore some nights. I’m not sure I’ve ever done any one activity intentionally (beyond eating and basic hygiene) for 800 consecutive days. And now what? I guess we’ll see. As long as I continue to not have a social life there is plenty of time for another 800 nights of writing. Or maybe as long as I keep writing every night, I can continue to avoid having a social life. Chicken? Egg? Whatever.