Some days you just have to close the curtains, lock the doors, turn off the lights, and indulge in presweetened morning breakfast cereal, with little marshmallows.

What i'm listening to:

Sabotage
Kristinia DeBarge
Exposed

Recently I stumbled upon a meme that asked the question: What feels like it’s illegal, but isn’t?

Calling in sick when you’re really sick, was the response.

Why is this true?

I agonized over this decision on Thursday... much longer than I should have.

In fact, I even Googled: Why do I feel guilty when I call in sick?

Naturally, I found an article that offered reasonable guidelines for when it is appropriate to call out from your job.

One of the guidelines was, essentially, if you will bring value to the shift, or if you’ll just be in the way. (I am paraphrasing.)

I called out due to exhaustion. To be honest, management cannot name a peer who has logged as many hours in March as I have. I’m tired. Fatigue is definitely affecting my job performance... and that I cannot abide.

So... no matter how guilty it made me feel... I called out.

For the first time. At this job, anyway.

Which sparked questions via text. Because I don’t call out. Which didn’t relieve my guilt. Because I don’t call out.

But I am exhausted. Seriously, I would have brought no value in today. I have nothing left to give.

I had hoped it’d be like murder—easier after the first time. Of course, I have no frame of reference.

Do I?

Anyway, I am still exhausted. And I am anxious about tomorrow.

Will it get easier?

Like murder?

Or will I succumb to drugs that I know will prop me up and get me through another shift?

Odd.

Murder = illegal. Drugs = illegal. Calling in sick ≠ illegal. Why does it feel like it?

As previously stated, no one ever accused me of being smart.

Recently, I’ve been reading Hemingway. Last night, I told a friend about it, and his response was, “Why?” He never considered Hemingway enjoyable reading.

And while I am enjoying my reading, some of the stories are bringing up twinges of envy and memories from academia.

Apparently, I am a superficial reader. This leads me to wonder if I am wasting my time reading... because I just don’t get as much out of reading as some (most?) people.

Reading Hemingway, and experiencing iceberg theory, brings this to the forefront. I remember, and realize, that this has always been a “feature” of how my mind works.

Even in pop music. Yes, really.

And clearly in relationships. Ugh.

I’ve lamented in the past, and in this space, about how memorization is truly my strength—especially short-term. My memory truly works like modern computing. I can recall everything to the finest detail, file it away and totally forget all of it, then recall the entire memory—to the finest detail—on demand.

Caching is my superhero power. Who knew?

Yet I rarely ever automatically dig deep. The “meaning” of the piece is lost on me. I recall so many literary discussions with my peers where s/he talks about a reading assignment, and what it meant to her/him, and in that moment thinking, “You got THAT? Out of THAT? Did we even read the same thing?”

Then the teacher turns to me to ask what I think... and I’ve got nothing.

I like Byron. I give him a 42, but I can't dance to it.

Face value. I guess I wasn’t too far off when I mentioned I was shallow.

At least I’m not alone. This is why God gave us Wikipedia, right?

So, I guess when a man and a woman are having a conversation about elephants and love and drinks while waiting for the train, there’s something else there. Something more. An elephant in the room, if you will. Something a faux-scholar like myself totally misses. Perhaps, I’m not the deep-thinker I’ve claimed to be.

But pop music?

Again, I can sing along. I can recall most lyrics flawlessly. Even songs that make no sense to me.

To me.

My shallow ass was complaining to a friend one day about how a song that was playing made no sense to me. Granted, I may not have heard the entire song... a liability of having pop music as the soundtrack to a workday... but I recall asking her why this guy would want to marry a girl who was being so rude to her?

And when she started explaining, I felt about three inches tall. Like in those literary discussions in school. It almost felt like I hadn’t done the homework—when I had. Even IF I didn’t get the meaning of the work.

Upon closer listen of that particular song, he is asking her father for his permission to marry the girl he loves. And he disapproves.

How did I miss that?

(Again, pop songs are pretty shallow... it’s very likely I kept catching the hook amidst the chaos of work, and never catching the opening verse.)

Then again. This is coming from the guy who’s sitting on the couch, watching some sexy series on Netflix at two a.m. with a gorgeous Latina girl on his lap, drinking tequila and rum, and yet somehow misses the real reason why she’s there, watching some sexy series on Netflix at two a.m., on his lap, drinking tequila and rum.

No wonder she disappeared.

I’m not dumb. Just shallow.

And superficial.

Your incessant need for companionship contradicts my desire for solitude.

Seriously, if I wanted to people before noon on any given day, I’d go back to work in an office.

Ugh. Savages. Please, just go away and leave me alone.

Once in a while, you find the perfect fit.

And you maintain the perfect fit.

Through weeks. Months. Years. Every day. It. Just. Feels. Right.

You actually look forward to the next day.

You no longer begin to wonder when it could all fall apart.

You just enjoy each day. Each moment. You complement each other.

Can it last forever?

The perfect pair...

Of shoes.

Seriously, how perfect is it when a pair of shoes break in so perfectly... that eighteen months later they. still. feel. great.

Every day.

Yes, the wear and tear is beginning to show. I know it won’t last forever. But for now, I’ll continue to enjoy this perfect pair of shoes.