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  • Writer's pictureChoo Choo

Le pain quotidien

Exhaustion is getting home after a ten hour day (and another one the day before, and a fourteener the day before that) and collapsing into a dead sleep on the couch without even bothering to take off your shoes or pet the cat who has come to nudge and lick your face with maternal worry.

It's days like these, especially right after I wake up from one of these addling corpse naps, when I have to remind myself that I have the best job in the world, that I get to go to work every day and play Bach and Beethoven and Verdi and I get to practice and rehearse Ravel and Messiaen and learn any number of extended techniques and awesome instruments for my beloved new music ensemble, and if I'm lucky like I was today, still somehow have time to make pasta with chard and roasted tomatoes for lunch, and take out the recycling, and update this dastardly diary that 0% of the populace reads.

So I rub the sleep from my eyes and make some homemade potato salad which I've been craving all day and eat approximately half of the very large bowl of it and in my carbohydrate-induced stupor I await tomorrow's impending twelve hour day.

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