Success, I Guess

Well, it’s come to this: a full day for me is one on which I eat lunch, wash a few windows, and write a blog entry.

I’m not sure whether this is commendable or pathetic, or both. I do know that I’m deeply into the dog days of summer mode: this is the point where it’s hard for me to see the point of doing anything, much less making a special point of doing it.

Naturally, there are plenty of things I could do and probably even more that I should. But why? The sun is going to burn out in a few billion years; even humanity’s greatest achievements—the rule of law, pneumatic tires, that giant-sized Pez dispenser—will be obliterated, so what’s the point in working on my little projects (or even that big one involving Cirque du Soleil contortionists and an Olympic-sized swimming pool full of vegetarian Jello)?

This isn’t to say I’m a complete slug; I did, after all, manage to mop the floor after spilling the entire contents of the coffee pot on it, and no one can deny how awesome it was of me to sew that button back on my shirt; still, today is a far cry from back in December, when I was known to grade several hundred student papers, design a superior form of representative democracy, and mail out an entire shipping crate of flyers announcing my new Las Vegas philosophy show, all before noon.

I try not to feel bad about my lack of productivity, and all in all, I manage pretty well, especially by comparing myself to trust fund babies, freight-hopping hoboes, and unfortunate folks in a permanent vegetative state.

Also, I console myself with the thought that I’ve earned my respite; all those years swabbing the foredeck and reefing the mizzenast (whatever that means) have to count for something.

And if they don’t?

I’m not going to worry about it; that’s just too much work.