Roommate is gone for the weekend. A moneyed prince of capitalism called him hither, he went thither, now he’s thurr. Selah.
The first thing that I did was re-arrange the furniture. I’ve never lived alone before, and from the first clack of the front door closing when I got back this evening, my hair dryer, ohmigod—exactly where I left it, on the couch, next to my breakfast—I was thrilled, electrically. It felt different from that first step in. Like the tomb of fuckin’ Tutankhamen.
It’s probably a truism, a personal truism, or at least a self-fulfilling prophecy that it is hard to work from home. All your stuff is at home. Dirty stuff. All your baggage is at home. Sad baggage. Stress sacks. To-do lists and laundry and unfinished projects that are all but dead but somehow still not thrown away, tacked up like headless warning totems on the pathways you traverse at own peril, leading you into enemy lands. You sit down, open your laptop, and holy shit!
It’s a story you abandoned, riddled with holes!
It’s an essay, an article, an assignment with three completed lines: your name, the title, TKTK, and maybe, maybe perhaps, a lede—”So there I was, drunk.” Some such. And it’s useless! You interviewed a dentist. You cannot become the story, here.
It’s a book you haven’t finished reading yet, because it sucks, but maybe it ends well—you could find out if you’d do it. If only you’d just do it to it.
And then there’s Twitter, which you’re constantly in the middle of. And all these disorganized folders… A starving dog yelps hopefully. Stray kittens claw infectious dirt into your shins. Sarah, clean the dishes. You swear to god, Netflix must’ve turned itself on… and then this beer leapt down your throat. Fuck, I thought you were gonna work on something, dawg!
It’s tomorrow already—you gotta get up and move! Shut your laptop! Pick this up when you get home!
So then you come home. It’s been another day, and now you’re home, only to realize, as if you’d ever truly forgotten, that it is hard to work from home. All your stuff is at home. Dirty stuff. All your baggage is at home. Sad baggage. Stress sacks. To-do lists, and laundry, and unfinished projects.
Etc. You dig?
Anyway. I choose with this, as with all things, to place all blame with the roommate. He should gladly carry it. What he’s up to is his business, but his business is being out-of-state, on a dope-ass vacation, long weekend, out of nowhere, for, like, no good reason.
Cheers, roommate. You do you. If you never come back, I’ll mail the cat to NYC.
Deviations from normal are good things, almost inherently. Chaos is the root of life. Remember, always—there is no limit to the number of things that you can blame for piss-poor productivity, so you should never, under any circumstances, blame yourself.
with my weekend living solo I will write the song that saves the world
youtube rabbit hole: 540-WAKE