It’s a beautiful Saturday evening. You should be outside enjoying the feel of sunlight on your face, breathing crisp, clear air as the sky turns from blue to purple to pink. but instead you sit in front of your computer, employing that integrity you said you would; writing when it is the last thing you’d like to do. You’d much rather watch Tom Hiddleston be undeniably debonair and unconvincingly dangerous in “The Night Manager.” But that can wait, this cannot.
You think of things to write about. Should you mention the overwhelming sense of happiness you feel when you hang out with friends? Maybe. You love all your friends, they’re great, but being lazy is so much easier than making plans. Yet when the plans come to fruition you think “I should do this way more often. This is what being young is all about.”
Perhaps you can mention that rolled ice cream you tried the night before and how utterly decadent and delicious it was. Seriously, you have to tell everyone. It was amazing.
Perhaps you should mention absinthe. No. Don’t mention that. Save that for an in-person conversation. The look on your face when you had it was like that kid finding a blank check in, you guessed it “Blank Check.”
So you sit and write and realize that while you didn’t want to write at all on this gorgeous Saturday, you did, and now you can reward yourself with some Tom Hiddleston and reward those people who put up with your introspective faux profundity with some smooth tunes.