Fitter, happier, more productive, comfortable, not drinking too much. Regular exercise at the gym, Three days a week. Getting on better with your associate employee contemporaries; at ease. Eating well, no more microwave dinners and unsaturated fats. A patient better driver; a safer car. Baby smiling in back seat. Sleeping well. No bad dreams. No paranoia. Careful to all animals. Never washing spiders down the plughole. Keep in contact with old friends. Enjoy a drink now and then. Will frequently check credit at moral bank. Hole in the wall. Favors for favors. Fond but not in love. Charity standing orders. On Sundays, ring road supermarket. No killing moths or putting boiling water on the ants. Car wash, also on Sundays. No longer afraid of the dark or midday shadows. Nothing so ridiculously teenage and desperate. Nothing so childish, at a better pace. Slower and more calculated. No chance of escape. Now self-employed. Concerned, but powerless. An empowered and informed member of society. Pragmatism not idealism. Will not cry in public. Less chance of illness. Tires that grip in the wet. Shot off baby strapped in back seat. A good memory. Still cries at a good film. Still kisses with saliva. No longer empty and frantic, like a cat tied to a stick, that’s driven into frozen winter shit. The ability to laugh at weakness. Calm, fitter, healthier and more productive. A pig in a cage. On antibiotics.
“They do more dick jokes than anybody, because they’ve had to survive, they have to prove, coming in the door, that they’re not dainty. That’s not fair, but women writers, they acquire the muscle of going blue fast because they have to counter the stigma. I don’t have enough control groups to compare it to, but there’s just something nice about feeling like your writers’ room represents your ensemble a little more accurately, represents the way the world turns.”—Community’s Dan Harmon on female comedy writers. This is pretty accurate. (via hayleyterris)