She would say a 40 hour-work-week makes me valuable.
That if I want to indulge, I’m slacking off.
If I want to create, I better put it down on paper —
Otherwise, nothing will get written.
“You will watch, you will play, you will read, but you will not succeed.
Success is 40 hours.
Success is six-figures.
Success is obeying my demands.”
So I add more “good” things:
- Time with friends
- Hikes in nature
- Shitty trash novels and too much New Yorker
- “Office Hours” for creatives
And yet she still screams at me:
Not emails, not texts (those have their own sounds)
But calendar reminders.
- Pill your cat
- Water the plants
- Pay your taxes
- Clean the windows
- Bill your clients
Network, network, network
If I didn’t have a calendar, I wouldn’t have a job,
But without a job, I might have the
To click delete.
Backspace, backspace, backspace
Until the cells are blank
And time stands still
As the weeks scroll forward
Like prison bars on the limited hours we have on this
One Precious Planet