The thing about work...

I have this incredible love, hate, HATE, HATE relationship with the reality of employment. Love? The dough. Hate? Responsibility to something I could give a rat's ass about. HATE? Having to go and exercise that responsibility by thinking/doing something about said something. HATE? 6 day work weeks on top of a 50 hour work week.

Yesterday, Saturday, myself, my EP and another writer spent about 5 hours performing triage on our show, which could use a little repairing and finetuning. This bonus workday was preceeded by a much-needed 2 hour, 40 mn trail run at Griffith Park early that morning, which cleared the cache a wee bit, but last night, I passed out around 9pm, only to awake at 6:00 and do a swim clinic in Santa Monica at 9, which KICKED what was left of my non-exisistent ass. (In all seriousness, I used to have a butt, but I noticed around age 28 a "sliding off" process, where my cheeks fell south of my kneecaps towards the Earth's core.)

Rigth now is my first break of the weekend after a 56 hour week, and I'm sipping my second margarita, feeling the stress and strain slip away like so many asscheeks.

Then I realize that in 14 hours, it starts all over again.