I was up too late last night for no good goddamn reason, and now I'm here at work. Well, I've been here for an hour, I'm early. I was early, I mean. I can't speak. Or type.
I think I'm going to move to Holland and live in a windmill and grow tulips. No ha but seriously, what about learning the trade of . . . growing things? I had a fantasy yesterday that I would get a job at a nursery this summer, move into a smaller, cheaper place and learn about dirt and plants and shrubs and trees and greenhouses. I would come home with dirt under my fingernails; I would wear a bandana all day long, and leather gloves, and carry things, and sweat, and finally make my peace with bugs, but only the good ones. And I would learn! So much!
I've never had what I would call a physical job. I've been wondering, for a while now, if I would have more of a sense of accomplishment at the end of the day if I came home tired and worn-out. I think maybe I would? That one week of tagging trees left me feeling very satisfied.
Or someone recently suggested I try bartending again, this summer. That I could do without getting rid of this job. I'd be working, and running around, and I would come home with cash in my pocket at the end of the day. And it's a useful skill to have, I think.
But for now, I'll finish this report. Ho hum.