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.