If I had 15 spare minutes, twenty-four-and-a-quarter hours, but everybody else only got the regular 24, I might be able to feel good.
I could sleep for 15 minutes without hating myself for wasting time, even though I waste more time awake.
If I had those 15 minutes just for myself, I might be able to be nice to people, and enjoy being around them. I hate how exhausting people are.
I'd like to like them, but they wear me out, grind me down to dullness. And then?
Then I write blathering blog posts and feel sorry for myself, and that's too bad. I'll never get anything done, and my tombstone will say
Here lies
James Elliott Rice
who would have done many things
but just got
Plumb Tuckered Out
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