Too tired to do much more at the end of the day than make my way home and collapse onto my unmade bed, splitting what scant free time I can cobble together from the scattered remnants of 14 hour days between pecking blindly away at my novel and spending time with the girl who, yeah, yeah, I guess is sorta my girlfriend. Two months of bottom-of-the-barreling it on another show for the Food Network (described in highconcept-ese as Myth-Busters-meets-food so many times that the words have become meaningless) has left me too tired, even, to summon much more than distant, vague indignation at the fact that, when it's all tallied up at the end of the day, I'm making ten dollars an hour. Sorry. A fucking hour.
Ah, there's the indignation. Of the various character defects pointed out to me over the course of my 29 years, being slow to anger has never been one of them, so it should speak to level of my fatigue that being pissed off at the situation in which I currently find myself -- being anything more than blithely accepting of my hours tracking down whole turkeys in July, or fighting midtown traffic while a two hundred pound block of ice slides around the back of the production minivan, or mutely pleading with gawking tourists to move from in front of the camera, to scraping chunks of putrid meat off of plates with a fork and a dribbling faucet that only runs cold -- is far too demanding of what little energy the long day leaves me.
But sigh, it is what it is, and coming to an end soon enough, and so now I find myself enjoying the last few hours of my Friday night and looking forward to two days of not a whole lot. Maybe write a little bit, maybe dim-sum tomorrow, maybe make a phone call, maybe just sitting around and watch DVDs. Friends, the world is my oyster.
