I just ate the last bit of butter chicken we had left over. I licked the spoon, the bowl, and part of the aluminum pie plate in which it was delivered. Now I am sitting happy in a fat chair with my stomach pushed out against the laptop.
My brain nags me, though, and louder every day. I should exercise more than I do. I should meditate more than never. I should dedicate more time to writing. I should go for more walks outside and actually inhale oxygen.
I want to do these things, but also don't want to. I would rather sleep and laze around and eat, but that sit-and-wait-for-accidentals approach to living is more likely to lead me to accidentally getting fat than it is to accidentally becoming a published author. I like to fantasize sometimes about an accidental life, though. In my head, someone says "Hey, you're the president!", and, lo and behold, I am the president of something or other. Someone says "Yours is the first book of poetry to hit the bestsellers list in, like, forever!", and then my book of poetry is the first book of poetry to hit the bestsellers list in, like, forever. I don't know why my fantasy always has someone exclaiming the facts of my accidental life to me, but it does, and I am always wildly successful.
An accidental life, though, would come with a cost: I would have no satisfaction in looking back on the long journey to the tiny seed at its beginning. I would never be the one exclaiming I DID THIS!
Still, when I am in the middle of a particularly lazy day, it is nice to imagine that I am suddenly the best thing ever to happen to something or other.
"You are brilliant and good looking and everyone thinks that you are the cat's pajamas!"
"Really? Good to know. That must be because I am the best thing ever."
Say goodnight, Ego. Goodnight, Ego.