I need to get out of the habit of writing unfinished, stray-hair tales. It's nearly impossible to write a well-formed story in half an hour; it takes time. Yesterday I'd run out. I've grown tired of writing about the events of my day. They're tedious as they unfold, and even moreso when I relive them; to relay them is criminal.
Today I go to the beach, under duress. The team has been wrangled into a work function in Monterey. A day of fun in the sun, beneath the dirty cotton skies of March. I think I'll wear a hoody and a hat, maybe gloves too. They say you can get a sunburn when it's overcast, so I'm considering smearing some sunblock on my face like warpaint. It'll be be my de la resistance to this coerced excursion. We were told that should we not attend the party, we are expected to work, from home or in the office. How's that for morale?
A lot of people are unhappy about it, myself included. It was communicated as a day to relax and recoup from our endless long-houred days, something restorative to mend that aching depletion, the persistent low-grade fever of exhaustion and over-exertion that is slow-cooking us all. Instead, I will spend 5 hours traveling on a bus to have a beer on a cold, cloudy beach.
It's drizzling. I just realized I didn't bring an umbrella.
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