you are viewing archives from 2004

laaazy

The phone rang. A. picked it up, said a few words, and handed it to me.

It’s [Older SlackBrother] J., he said.

I grabbed the receiver and tucked it between my shoulder and my ear.

What’s up?

Just sent you those ideas we talked about. What’s up with you?

I’m getting Pet Stims.

Pet Stims?

Pet medicine.

Is Daisy okay?

Oh, she’s fine, it’s for Chorky.

Chorky?

My cu pa? In Star Wars Galaxies?

Let me get this straight. You’re getting medicine for your make-believe pet.

Well, I wouldn’t say he’s totally make-believe. He exists on my computer.

Fine, you’re buying meds for your computer pet.

And talking to you, yes.

What do you have going the rest of the day?

I shifted the phone to the other ear. I’ll send those ideas to P. once I get them. But after that, I dunno. Maybe fly to Lok, shoot some Gurks.

J. laughed and hung up. I turned to A.

I am the laziest human being alive.

Except for me, he added.

I bought Pet Stims and caught the shuttle back to Coronet.

I’ve gotten used to my life over the past year. Wake up without an alarm clock. Feed the dog, get some exercise, write a little, mess about online. Grocery shop, cook, have a nice dinner waiting for A. when he gets home. Hang out and either work on writing projects together or separately, play Galaxies, or discuss what’s left to do with the house.

The blissful part of this all is that I’ve chosen this life. I’ve outlined the basic plot points, and left the details to be filled in later. I’m shacked-up, with no plan to get married. I’m partnered with no intention of having kids. I’m writing with no intention to get a Real Job.

Of course, I can’t wait to get a writing job. There’s a finger in every pot when it comes to writing gigs. We’ve switched agents and the net of job opportunity has been cast far and wide. Mentally I’ve gone from if we get a job to when we get a job, as I’m convinced it’s a matter of time. I’m doing everything in my power to make sure we’re employed; it’s just that everything in my power is a lot of do-your-thing and then sit-around-and-wait.

For seven years I worked my ass off. Early mornings, late nights, weekends too. I’ve been yelled at and demeaned and threatened, I’ve been harrassed and emotionally blackmailed and manipulated. I ran up thousands in credit card bills and lay awake looking at the ceiling, wondering how I would crawl out. I bit my lip and blinked back my tears and threw up in the bathroom from stress.

There was no light at the end of the tunnel, because I was in the wrong tunnel.

When the hand was extended to lift me up, I took it and never looked back. And when that writing job came, I worked and worked hard. I paid off my debt and socked enough away for a rainy year.

I realize that I’m sitting in the fabled catbird seat. No kids, no debt, nothing breathing down my neck except for me and the standards to which I hold myself, which are basically: be a decent human, take care of the pit bulls, and one day when I'm in the position to, extend that hand to someone else.

So I can be lazy.

I can waste an afternoon in front of the computer, guilt-free, as my writing’s done, my bills are paid, my boyfriend is happy and the dog’s fed.

I can be lazy, ‘cause I chose this life. I populated it with only a boy and a dog and nothing more.

I can be lazy, ‘cause I worked my ass off to get here.

And it’s good.