4 hrs reading.
4 hrs writing.
4 hrs rocking.
6 hrs miscellaneous activities with self/family/friends.
6 hrs sleeping.
Daily I live with the disturbing truth that I somehow failed to maneuver myself into a career that paid me a modest living’s worth to either read, write or rock. Hell, all three in the same day would be exquisite.
But no.
Instead I as a middle-aged man somehow manage to function with the anxiety of having not made the right choices in that regard.
FUN FACT: You can damn near spell the word underachiever with letters from my three names. You’d only be short the h and the i. Obviously only someone with issues would even think that way, right?
Lost Signal 