Just rising from my afternoon nap — don’t hate me.
I need it.
Like many people, I gifted the best part of my life to corporate hours. Wake before 6am, home after 7pm, check work emails until bedtime.
Exhausting.
After quitting my full-time job, I’ve found that daylight has grown on me. I’m embracing the light and the warmth and have come to understand that the orange orb is not reserved solely for weekends.
Don’t get me wrong — I don’t allow the sun to touch my alabaster skin.
But I do like to look at it.
Sunshine feels like a new concept after years of blinds down in fluorescent hell, stealing only fleeting glances at the outside world when an emergency vehicle screamed past. The thought of an evacuation from Level 27 still makes my thighs quiver.
Crime podcasts and stories of downtrodden souls lift my spirits immensely. There’s an uncomfortable comfort in judging people quietly through headphones.
With the current quality of our internet service, don’t be surprised if I make an appearance on a future episode of Casefile True Crime — Half-Arsed Writer Goes Postal.
Today, I dance to the beat of my own drum.
Nobody is watching.