Mickey KluttsNovember 29, 2007
Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life. I swear. Today is already off to a shaky start, so I might as well treat it like I usually treat my days, i.e., as if there are an endless supply of them, so who cares if I let this one sort of slip from my fingers. Yesterday my plan for today was to wake early and write with the ferocity of a coked-up Lawrence Taylor hitting a tackling sled, write like words were the only way to extinguish a grease fire climbing my clothes, write like Jack Kerouac ascending a clattering typewriter solo to heaven. But when I actually got up today I first checked the status of my Strat-O-Matic 1970s league team, then checked that I was able to pick up new Bears starter Adrian Peterson for my fantasy football team, then checked results from my two fantasy basketball teams (“I can’t keep up with all your fantasy worlds,” my wife recently said as I stared at one or another of my rosters), then I tried to write about Tree Rollins, of all things to start the first day of the rest of my life writing about, then I gave up, then I started thinking about getting ready for work, then I started envisioning the long commute, the many hours at my job, the long commute home, the two beers and pile of food for dinner, the Thursday night comedy lineup, and unconsciousness. Today is shot. But tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life. I swear.