Where’s my 25th hour?

Sleeping is for the dead.

Here I am, again. Months have passed since I’ve written. I call bullshit.

Needed to make some real money. Get back in professional, social, and physical shape. Shake hands with my inner therapist, say thanks for the year (plus) of analysis and treatment, and be on my merry way.

But here I am, again. Months have passed since I’ve written. May be bullshit BUT life’s good.

Because I’m living.

Cool. So what’s next? I turn 38 on Sunday and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t slightly panic-stricken about what 40 will look like.

My end goal: write exclusively with lots of travel required to do this job well. Tell the stories of people who walk the walk and explode with life-changing intention. Pop the kernel that might have been left in the bottom of the bag but has soaked up all the yummy flavor. Purchase inheritable property. Share, not settle. Be a killer aunt.

My path (as best as I know it today): say yes to great stuff, no to the crap (and not be afraid to speak either of those big, scary words). Write. Read. Write. Shake my ass to groovy tunes. Soak it all in.

This is going to require some restructuring of my time. Actually prioritize now that I (finally) have a full plate. Writing has to be numero uno, immediately followed by that which puts a smile on my face.

I must admit that a 25th hour in the day would be helpful right now.

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