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I want it to be Friday night. I want to take my time going to bed knowing that I can sleep as late as I want in the morning. Instead it’s 10:42 and mostly what I’m thinking is, if I can be asleep by 11, I can still manage 8 hours. Only the chances of me being asleep in the next 18 minutes are slim.

My days feel long. My nights feel too short.

People keep being shocked when they hear where I have recently moved from and where I moved to. I should just shrug and say, “I’m not really interested in having much of a life,” but I don’t. Instead I smile and play along. I justify it with the benefit of getting paid to work in my field and the dramatic increase in living space. These things are also true.

When they start in on how I’ll have to get down to LA I continue with the game, all smiles and nods and fake excitement. Driving down to LA seems like a major pain in the ass to me. I don’t say this. I don’t say, “I’d rather just stay home.” I don’t say, “Actually, that sounds like it’d just make me miserable,” though I’m so convinced of this that my mind has already moved on and isn’t really keeping up with the conversation anymore.

Strangers seem very concerned about my life being fun and exciting. I suppose in some way this is nice. It is also annoying.

The truth is, I want to embrace dullness for a while. I want to be boring and have a boring life. I just want to sit in that for a time until I start to itch for something else. It’s good enough for me. This–me in bed before 11 PM with my dog lying next to me–is plenty good enough. I just wish I didn’t have to answer to an alarm in the morning.