1:11

It's one-eleven on Sunday. There's a good chance I'm writing or not writing today. It's also a possibility that I don't exist and the writing I've done is completely insignificant. There's also a chance that you've interestingly enough lost interest with wasting my time and yours but it's unlikely.

I've been up for only three hours. It's the first time in two months I've slept in, really slept in. I opened my eyes to find my newest puppy, Charlie, standing beside my bed, looking at me and whining to go out. My foot hurts. I look down. My inclination to look at my foot when I wake up happens almost everyday now. Remarkably I hurt my foot while healing it.

Which is a story that isn't a story when you think about what really constitutes a story and what doesn't. It's more like an anecdote that sounds more like a complaint, but it isn't a complaint so much as it's a thing that happened because I wanted it to happen.

So I made it happen.

To rephrase, I made a nice man say yes to do something that I still wonder if he really wanted to do in the first place. I won't know because I'll never press into it. Some people can't lie to you and it's not fair to make them. Needless to say it's art, it's done and healed. Beautifully although not entirely without it's problems since I injured myself in the process of healing it. Which isn't the truth but it is at the same time.

Can something be the truth and a lie?

Why not.

I injured my foot last year and the process of healing it recently aggravated the injury. One could blame it on my newly acquired art or lack of proper shoes. But the blame lies with me. There's the truth and lie hidden in plain sight.

And now I'm writing but not writing. It's Sunday. You're not tired of wasting time. My foot hurts. The puppy is outside. I'm awake and laying on the bed. It's now 1:25 and you're wondering when this will...