June 11, 2019•247 words
I don't want to count the days anymore. It feels like a countdown (which it is) to a finish, rather than a count-up to whatever I'm attempting to do here.
Oh. That's right. I'm trying to write for 100 days.
Day 14. I've always liked that number. I've always liked the number 4. No reason. It just looks good.
I'm eating wrong and too much.
A glass of chardonnay gave me a headache.
Two glasses actually.
Well, maybe three.
I can't remember.
Is that a problem?
The headaches I mean.
Tomorrow I will make my bed after a half cup of coffee.
You should too.
I'm nervous about tomorrow. Tomorrow I will be nervous about tomorrow. I wish tomorrow was over today. And I wish today would change places with yesterday. And yesterday would change places with the day before that, and the day before that, and so on. And when you reach the end of days I guess you could call it the beginning.
So tonight I will wish you a good morning from yesterday,
And if you wish you can say thank you tomorrow.
(When this is posted it will say June 11th. My editor says June 10th. Make of it what you will. The only thing that matters is today is the day that I wrote. And tomorrow will be the day I will write. And all the other days I wrote were the days I wrote one after another toward the challenge.)