It’s Sunday night. Today I did laundry, grocery shopped, went to a yoga class, and did a storytelling show. It was a good day and right now I would like pure, unadulterated laziness. I want to be on my couch watching television before I sleep and wake up to a Monday.

But I need to write.

Doing a thing once a day doesn’t sound like a big deal until it comes the time of day that you actually have to do it. That’s where I am right now. It’s like someone asking you to do one more thing at work right before you’re supposed to go home.

But just like someone asking me to do one more thing right before I leave work, I know I’ll feel guilty if I don’t do it. I could not write. Nothing would happen if I didn’t write. No one would care.

But, unfortunately, I would.

I hate these posts about posts. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again when I do it again. It’s hard to write about yourself and your interests on a blog 365 times (122 so far) and not have the subject of blogging come up.

I get sick of myself and my own voice. I get sick of the things that I talk about. I worry that I sound like some boring white guy. I probably do because I probably am.

Sometimes I think that I hold on really tightly to my own writing, so afraid to make a mistake or say something stupid. I try to write as clearly as I can, like everything’s an AP English essay.

I’m in my kitchen right now, at the square kitchen table I got from IKEA. Last summer, when I didn’t have a job, the first thing that I would do in the morning is get my notebook and write three pages longhand. From this chair, I would look down the hallway in my apartment to my living room window. Most mornings I would start with a description of the light coming through the window and the leaves on the trees outside.

It was boring but I liked it.

That was never meant to be seen, though. This I’m sharing with you.

It’s Sunday night and I finished my post. There’s a couch and some mindless television that have my name on them.