Last night I came home. I ate dinner and didn't clean up afterward. I moved from the kitchen table to the couch and binge-watched five episodes of “The Flash”.
This was my evening.
I did have plans and things that I needed to do. I should have put some shrubs in the ground before we leave for the weekend. I should have gone over Julia’s summer school options. There are bills to pay and some exercise after a day of disease-encouraging sitting might have been beneficial. Instead I watched Barry Allen save Central City while he pined over his crush, Iris (she’s really annoying, by the way).
I got to bed around midnight and woke up a little later. I was dreaming about “The Flash”. Now I’m tired and cranky because, clearly, I’m a waste of skin.
I have a lot of evenings like this. I have entire weekends like this. Often people will ask me, “What did you do over the weekend?” and I won't have an answer. I can’t recall a single thing I did.
The poet, Keats knew he was going to die young. That’s why he worked so furiously to cement his legacy. Unlike him, I made it well past 25 and I still don’t have a single ode to anything. But I do have ten more episodes of “Daredevil” to watch on Netflix. I’d better get busy. . .
Did you know lions usually sleep 20 hours a day?