paracetamol

I was scolded the other day by one of my superiors because I was a few minutes late for a meeting.
His words dripped with discipline and his face was stern and all the while I nodded, agreeing, a tiny smile hidden behind my lips as I took it all in stride.
When it comes to getting in trouble, I've realized that I walk a fine line sometimes between owning up to my mistakes and simply not giving a fuck.
I mean if it's obvious that I did something wrong, I won't deny it. And if someone calls me out on it, I'll take full responsibility. Maybe it's that constant desire in me to avoid conflicts, but I get a kind of satisfaction when people realize that they've failed to make me feel bad about something I've done.
Yet in that same vein, there are honestly times where the issue at hand seems so insignificant in the grand  scheme of things. This one problem that is beyond resolution or can be easily fixed-- is it really necessary to give it so much attention? Do we really need to expend x amount of energy complaining or worrying about it?
I recall in my high school journalism class, my teacher told us one of the main things you never want a reader to think while they're reading your story--
“...so what?”
And in the event that they DO think that, you better have a damn good reason for them to finish your article.
And those two words frequent my mind at times like regular patrons at a bar. They mosey on in, sit at their usual seats, and wait for the bartender to prepare the same drinks they've ordered for the last four years.
“So what?”
Why is this important?
What impact will this have?
Just how many fucks do I give?

I started writing a little something the other day (!). It's still in the development stages but it's something.
It's like some kind of alternate universe version of me who (surprise) has a severe case of writer's block. Lucky for him, he has a cute, Hawaiian boyfriend to encourage him.
Is it strange that when I decided to create a boyfriend for alternate universe (AU) me that I got a little sad? I picture AU boyfriend in my mind and I see him smile.
I see him scratching the back of his thigh and roaming around their apartment (they live together) in his boxer-briefs. He has dark  skin and is a bit on the stocky side. He has a slight accent. His name is Roderigo and AU me sometimes calls him 'Rigo' or 'Riggy'. I imagine him working with cars, always returning home from work with some kind of grease stain on his face.
...actually, the more I think about it, the more I'm inclined to write about just how the two of them met.
Maybe that'll be chapter two.
I don't know where I'm going with it though. Could be a good thing.
As long as I'm writing, I suppose.

Last, last thing--
My paternal clock might be ticking.
As I age and witness friends marry and procreate, I wonder just when I'll be ready to do so.
I mean, I'm in no rush and I don't necessarily see myself settling down soon... but I can't help but think about when I will.
And when I do, what'll I tell the 'rents?
Will I have kids? How will I have kids?
Wait, backtrack for a bit-- how will I be supporting this family?
Where am I living?
Who's living with me? (Hi, Rigo ;)  )
In roughly five years, I'll be 30.
For some reason, diddling around on Facebook and playing games in my underwear doesn't sound as age-appropriate as it does right now (...is it even age-appropriate now?).

...but then I kind of have to think about the amount of fucks I give....

strontianite

We're set to return home from this business trip very soon.
I haven't packed yet.
There's still work to do, after all.

I recently had a bit of an accident at work last week and scarred my face.
Is it bad that I want to heal up quickly so that it betters my chances of getting laid when I return?
I swear I'm not an addict.

When I get back, I'll have a new apartment, a new roommate, and (hopefully) a new car.
There's kind of a reason why I don't plan things ahead of time. I just like living in the moment-- the now after now after now after now after now...

Plus, plans always seem to fall through.