Set it and Forget it
KillToParty | November 26, 2020 | by Billy Pratt @ Kill to Party
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> â€œRow like a felon, drown like a captain’s son. But say,
> how long can this go on?”

THE GOAL IS A CLEAR STRETCH OF HIGHWAY LONG ENOUGH TO KEEP YOUR CRUISE
CONTROL SET AT SEVENTY-EIGHT. Detach from the minutia of traffic while
feeling connected to the reality of _journey_– wheels groping
pavement, cutting through morning air. Not only does your attention to
speed management ultimately save on gas mileage, but more importantly
it provides space to sharpen the mind/body connection that’s crucial
for when you walk into work at 6am- each motion light clicking to life
as you pass- to sit at your desk and write in a spiral-bound notebook
for twenty-five minutes before starting work for the day.

Cafeteria duty has become dedicated to reading and tuning out
co-worker chatter about meals past and upcoming- Steve pursuing the
perfect combination of pizza toppings, Larry the Security Guard having
meatloaf _again_ but it’s _okay_ because Larry_ loves meatloaf_. You
can’t ask them to stop talking, but you’d like to, as if only to
emphasize the importance of finding time to read every day.

Reading is like the leg-day of writing- it’s easy to skip a few
times, and then walk away all together thinking you don’t really
need it, which is when your writing turns to shit. You could read
things you enjoy, but you’re better off finding something that helps
organize your thoughts into stronger prose- if what you’re reading
doesn’t strengthen your voice as a writer, sorry bucko, put the
comic book down and find something better suited to maximize
productivity. Idiot thought reading was supposed to be enjoyable?

LUNCH ISN’T ABOUT EATING LUNCH- actually eating lunch is for
suckers. People with their lavish, restaurant style meals- plates
getting heated in microwaves, an army of Tupperware coming out of
satchels, menus and take-out. You don’t need any of this- you need a
pen and a printed copy of what will be your first book; reading print
and editing by hand has a different feel than sitting in front of a
desk top- a different perspective. Both necessary to end up with a
product that will make sense of an otherwise wasted forty years. There
is nothing more important than this.

You try to get all of your actual work- the work you get paid for; the
work you disregard as bullshit- done in one shot. You’ve front
loaded your school year with large, time-consuming projects so you can
spend the rest of your time writing- work you will never get paid for;
work you consider with dire importance. Writing gives you a sense of
relief when feeling anxious- purpose when feeling like you’ve ruined
your life and wasted your time- meaning when thinking about the
meaningless of your death.

***

I KILLED MY TEACHER, SHE TOLD ME. She was excited. Her math teacher
died after sending her father an email about how _disappointed _she
was in the kid’s lack of participation in class- supposedly she
died, like, within an hour of sending the email. Last thing she did.
Maybe the last thing she thought about. Class participation. A funny
story for the kid
[https://killtoparty.com/2020/03/16/dating-and-reality-picnic-lightning/]
to tell people. No one cares and you’ll end up in a dumpster with
some asshole laughing at you. That’s your life.

***

After work, you rush home to get your gym gear on. You’ve settled on
a two days on-one day off-three days on-two days off lifting schedule,
with your days set at chest and shoulders, legs and abs, back and
arms. You learned the virtue of rest days during quarantine. You also
learned that a weighted vest maximizes your time spent walking after
the gym, which is anywhere between four-and-a-half to ten miles per
day.

Dinner is your _one meal per day_, and is usually some combination of
steak, eggs, pork, and chicken. You feel guilty indulging in Quest
cookies before bed, which have become the bane of your weekday
existence but also what you most look forward to- the gift and the
curse; the sacred and the profane. You spend a lot of time thinking
about processed, low-sugar protein cookies. This is your life.

Don’t message me for fitness advice, because now you know everything
I know. That’s the only way I know to do it. I only know the hard
way, every time. I’ve been fat- women treat you like a leering
retard and people at work talk down to you. I’d rather drop dead
from my awful schedule than deal with another second of that ever
again.

YOU ACTUALLY TELL PEOPLE YOU GO TO BED AT 8 O’CLOCK, SHE ENQUIRED.
Earnestly. She thought this made me _look crazy_– that I don’t
spend my free time watching streaming TV shows that remind me of the
inherent badass nature of white suburban women; drinking wine;
_enjoying my time_ in a kind of free-floating, unscheduled manner.
Unproductive. Repulsive. Enjoy your time off the work farm, plebs-
I’ll be here grinding myself to death.

I have nothing in common with people who don’t understand the
urgency of getting to bed early; sleeping away my two hours at the
gym, ten miles walking with twenty-pounds on my back, the 3,000
calories of meat- sleep substituting for meditation; dreaming
productively; waking up with total mental clarity and peak creative
energy. Racing to work to write in a fucking notebook- the most
important thing you do; what must be guarded before all else. Avoiding
morning greetings and polite chit-chat from well-meaning co-workers;
vicious mind-erasers and creative vampires, all of them. Everything in
service of writing in the fucking notebook because writing in the
notebook is all you fucking have.

***

THIS IS A TEST FROM GOD, HE SAID TO HIMSELF. He wrote this on his
Internet web-log. Autocorrect, always sure to capitalize the
i-in-Internet but never the g-in-God. He tried to feel the presence of
God in his daily life, but he settled on the idea that it were better
if he didn’t. Faith is a test of your mettle. Better that he stay
hidden. I can take it, he thought. Meaning, slipping through his
fingers like sand. Body falling apart. Watching his parents die. I can
take it, he thought.

Grinding away, expecting something to click- to make sense, just once.
Stay hidden, God- faith is having belief despite insurmountable energy
urging toward disbelief. Faith is a challenge; faith is a choice. Easy
to believe when everything is handed to you- money, women, meaning.
Don’t make sense of this for me, God, I can take it; I can do
better- I can start getting to bed at 7:45.

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