It can't all be killer

Cat on drugs

It's hot as a furnace in Colombo and my house smells like fish. We bought the cheap fish for the cat and it actually stinks. The cat got his nuts snipped today. Today he's wandering around, stoned out of his gourd. The kids are home and they want to play. I've been playing so much Monopoly Deal that I can tell you the properties in my sleep. States Avenue, purple. North Carolina Avenue, green. This is all a roundabout way of saying, I haven't gotten any writing done today. I was also lazy and watched a bunch of football videos, but let's blame it on the children.

Blame The Children

The problem is not the time I'm interrupted. All together it's maybe an hour. The problem is the interruption. As a writer, if I can write down what comes to me in dreams, I'm done in 45 minutes. If I'm interrupted, however, it takes me the whole day. And I'm interrupted the whole day (when they're not at school). If I ever catch that train of thought again, it's quickly derailed. Right now, for example, I'm on a train of thought which my son derails to ask me about some dumb shit. He was pointing out a moth on a lamp. Which is actually pretty cool. Where was I again?

Interruptions shatter the hours like so much sweet shrapnel. Now he's asking me if Sri Lanka put a flag on the moon. 'You can be the first!' I'm ashamed to say I yell at them for such cute questions, but I do. But I have things to do. Right now, for example, I could spend the next 15 minutes bathing the child, or spend 30 minutes yelling at him to bathe himself. I think I'll choose the latter as I always do. Pride goeth before the fall, which means, logically, that as long as you stay proud, you'll never fall.

Wait, We're All Children

Where was I? Who cares, it's a new paragraph. This is the absolute state of writing (or doing anything) when you should really be doing something else. A child's interruptions, of course, are not for no reason. I'm a parent, I should be parenting! If you spend one focused hour with a child they'll actually leave you alone. Instead we give children many distracted hours, and no one is happy. I know all this. I just don't do it. Adults have as much of a problem with delayed gratification as children. I wanna do what I wanna. The heart remains a child.

For fucks sake, my child is restarting his Yoto Player every three seconds, just repeating the sentence “The Foolish Frog”, over and over. He knows I hate the “I'm A Gummy Bear” song and makes it a point to play it. And the father-in-law calls to discuss dogs.

I suppose even having a train of thought is an industrial idea. How do you explain that to someone who's never seen a train? In the old days you'd have to walk across a field to bother somebody. We didn't live so cheek-to-jowl. Children were outside. Going further back, we were all outside. Humans are just animals that have been domesticated into Gross Domestic Productivity. We aren't the bosses, we're barely domesticated beasts. What are we, objectively? We're just the house pets of Profit. Who's feeding you?

Sleepy puppy

Anyways, I just disappeared for an hour between paragraphs now. The in-laws got a new puppy, and I dropped the boy off at his great-grandmother's for the night. I called my wife in accursed England and I'm hanging out with the cat, who stinks of hospital. He's giving himself a bath, mashallah. I'm a bit high from some edibles I bought at the mall. It's an ancient ayurvedic medicine, prescribed for sexy times, but it works fine for whatever ails you.

This is all the stuff I don't write about, because I simply haven't had the time to edit it out. Does this count as a post? It meets the wordcount. Peace out.