Now I'm lazy, fat, and just scored 73-years-old in one of those "find your true age" tests online.
Is it just me... or am I graying prematurely?
Despite the stress of loud parties in the apartments beside us, robberies in the apartments beneath us, and Krispy Kreme Doughnuts in the store across the street, I've discovered that apartment-life is actually good for one thing: my writing career.
- I can't sleep -- because when our 19-year-old-neighbor is not having parties, he's banging nails into a log outside our window (I'm not making this up). What is he doing -- anger management? The only thing I can possibly do to manage my anger at 2 a.m. (besides ring his neck) is -- you guessed it -- write.
- I can't exercise -- because it's not like I'm going to go jogging around the complex when there are armed robbers on the loose. So I -- you guessed it -- write.
- I can't clean house -- because it's a small apartment and you can only scrub the porcelain so many times before the acid in the cleaner eats away at the potty seat and your husband falls in. So I -- you guessed it -- write.
- I can't eat -- because according to my physician's scale, I weigh 7 pounds more than I did seven months ago. That's one pound per month for my math-impaired readers. I can't afford to gain any more weight or people will start asking me when the baby's due. So I -- you guessed it -- write.
So even though I'm lazy, fat, and 73-years-old, my writing career is advancing.
I just hope I live to see the rest of it.