Not working begets not working. I’m out of practice. I was around mile 11 of a run, sun was going down on the Fillmore and I thought, “I love San Francisco. I love living here. I love it so much that, one day, I’d like to be the oldest man alive in San Francisco.” I was self-tickled by the idea of wanting to be the oldest living man in a place as a sign of affection for it. I’ve got some hummus coming at me courtesy a coworker. You’re allowed to listen to music with lyrics (incl. hiphop) while you write pointless blog posts. Behind at work. The narrator of The End of the Affair writes 500 words a day when he’s writing a novel. John (“Jack”) Hawkes taught Rick Moody to try 1,000 a day. I average like eighteen. (“I love San Francisco to the point where I want to be the oldest man alive in it.”) Here comes the weekend. Not even worth mentioning because of what with in regards to the behind-ness at work. Happy birthday to all of you guys.


3 thoughts on “Begotten

  1. bouncers

    In Northern Ireland, the government sends you a check for 1200 pounds (actually, it is more like 1263) when you turn 100. good luck with your supercentenarian ambitions. it is nice that you are motivated by jogging in the sun. too bad you won’t be able to jog past the age of, say, 60…

  2. quilty Post author

    why won’t I be able to jog past sixty? because I’ll be blind? My uncle still runs marathons and is almost seventy. I want to run marathons with blind people now so that when I am blind young failed poets will run marathons with me. “alright, buddy, we got a pothole at 12 o’clock…. a dude just barfed gatorade all over the place, let’s bear left…. whoa, a semi-attractive woman just checked you out, I think…” etc.


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