A week feels like an arbitrary thing. Seven days. Why seven? Why not name every day of a thirty day month? Why a month?
I mean, I know if you are going to acknowledge the passing of time, you are going to have units of measurement. It's fine, the week is how we do it, and seconds and minutes and hours and days and months and years and whatever. The reason why I bring this all up, is that this week was crazy and so today I bought a bottle of Glenlivet to celebrate the ending of this particular week. This week is over, and I'm drinking delicious Scotch that I absolutely cannot afford. F**k yeah.
There was the Regrette situation. And spending way too much time with Belle Star. There were the Pirates, who might just manage to be terrible forever.
Seconds and minutes and hours and days and months and years and decades and centuries and millenia. Wild.
I wonder if Belle Star ever lies awake at night, staring at the ceiling, thinking about time. About how it keeps moving. About how easy it is to waste it. About how wonderful it is when you are able to fill your own with something beautiful.
Fifty hours a week is a lot of time to spend anchored to a sink. If I could do anything I wanted for a living, to do anything I wanted for fifty hours, what would I do? Maybe I could be a playwright. Maybe I could dramatize the human situation.
Maybe I could distill Scotch. Maybe I should save my money and take a trip to Scotland.
Who would watch the dogs?
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