Hot. Crunchy. Drizzled with sweet cream butter + flakes of artisanal salt.
Is there anything better?
I think not.
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
On nights like tonight (cold San Francisco nights, when a chill whips around the sharp edges of tall buildings + creeps beneath the chunky plaster that binds the windowsills), when I’ve got a to-do list that fills the limits of the page and spills over to the other side, a strange thing happens.
I feel content.
(Shh: don’t tell): I like to be busy. Too busy, even.
I like it when I have so much to do that it strains the limits of the Possible.
When I ask myself: how will it all get done? And in answer, I get a peculiar rush of adrenaline, a particular thrill.
Call me Type A, a workaholic, if you will, but there it is: I like the sensation of being pressed around the edges, of taking the hay of Too Much To Do and turning it into the gold of Done. Perhaps I’ve read Rumpelstiltskin too many times.
You might say that I’m running from the emptiness of unscheduled time, but I know that terrain well. The white noise of Nothing to Finish, the long, blank stretch of Everything Has Already Been Delivered, the beasties that emerge from these barren tundras to howl in my ears... these are landscapes in which I am a seasoned traveler.
But nights like these (cold, rushed, frantic): I like them best.
Shh.
Want some popcorn?
