how my brain never let me enjoy summer vacation

You come home from a job you enjoy, and you relax. You read, maybe a play, maybe a magazine, maybe a shitty novel about some stupid girl who is going gaga over some poorly conceived vampire. Maybe you try to keep on top of the blog-o-sphere (or whatever it’s called), looking for stories to react to, looking for conversations to be a part of. You watch TV. That’s what people do to relax, right? Catch up on there favorite shows. Keep on top of what’s happening to Chuck and Peter Petrelli or Olivia Benson so that you can connect with the people on the other side of the screen looking back at you? I wonder if there is something in our brains that reasons that if two people look into a piece of glass and see the same object from the same angle then they must be in the same spot. I wonder if our bodies physically respond to television in such a way that it legitimately makes us feel closer to the rest of humanity.

You come home and you do these things. You fall into what should be a pleasant routine. How much of the world would fight for this routine? But it isn’t enough. Sometimes you mix it up by writing a blog entry or going to the gym, messing with your fantasy football team. But it isn’t enough. You go out with friends. You go to a party. You go away to Russian River for the weekend.

And yet something nags at you, tickles your brain from the inside. You said you had given up writing plays for a while, while you settled in to your new life. Maybe you’ve settled enough?

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