I have been trying not to view writing as a chore. I really do enjoy it. I have a hard time pulling myself away from other hobbies to do this, though, and writing at work is no easy task these days. Strangely, agencies always pick up in the summer. So, when the weather is conducive to being outside away from computers, clients always seem to want to work, but in winter when coding is not so much penalty as pastime, we end up sitting on our hands. But at least our hands are warm.

Speaking of hobbies that seem more like work (and vice versa), I have not managed to complete much in the way of my Hackintosh project. Instead, I have a nominally functional Windows 2000 box. It makes me a little sad. I had not wanted to ever upgrade that machine, but due to my impatience, a $30 quick boost to a game I don’t really want to play anyway became a $700 upgrade which is more pain than promise.

Still, at least I *can* play with it now. It does have a certain charm, running there in an old case, humming gently and inadequately, pieces hanging out of it in a technological vomit freeze frame. Once my gaming rig is established, I’ll play around further with making it a viable platform for Mac OS, but until then, Clare and I are doomed to share my little Mini, which is already buckling under the strain.

A couple of fights this weekend with Clare reminded me of all of those amusing and awkward comedy sketches based around people being trapped near friends in an argument. I have become all the things I used to hate. There’s a proverb about that, isn’t there? I can’t remember the phrasing, but it’s true. What you fear becoming, you will no doubt become. I am downright curmudgeony and I am only 31. The next thirty years… yikes.

Two of my friends had babies over the past two weeks. I am totally enchanted by the whole process. When I find myself daydreaming about being a father, though, a sort of spider sense goes off that reminds me what kind of person I am. I cannot tolerate even rational adults on a daily basis; I doubt my misanthropic tendencies will suddenly come into the vogue of parenting.

Granted, I can deal with children on a limited basis. In particular, when dealing with other people’s children, I can manage to be even an exemplary baby-sitter. There is an extenuating circumstance there that should be obvious: this is not my child. I am not free to rear them as I see fit. I may only perform in the prescribed, unfamiliar way.

Snide comments are taboo, yelling is frowned upon, and even a mild cuff when the child is being unreasonable — and might need such animalistic feedback for the lesson to be clear — is grounds for prosecution. My patience is made infinite by my fear of the consequences. Ask my little younger brother how patient I was even when he was only mildly misbehaving. His answers may surprise you.

I do not mean this to come across so maudlin. I am struggling with the concept of being a grown-up and what that means. I am not really contented to act responsibly, but I cower away from the big dreams in favor of comfort. I suppose I could have just said, “Hey, I’m complacent and that sucks…. I think.” But, I’m trying to fill space, probably.

Clare wants kids eventually. In our conversations, we have both decided that we’re not ready yet. I got kind of a late start on this whole adult life thing, though, and I don’t think I will be ready in a healthy amount of time. I guess I have a couple of years to work it out, while she is in New York studying stuff, being all smart.

Getting into this late in the rant, but I skipped my season audition on Saturday with RSVP because I did not have a monologue prepared. They said you could read from scripts they would provide, but I feel like one should present one’s self like a professional if one wants to be treated as a professional. I know it probably would not keep me out of a community theater to come in cold and read, but my personal philosophy makes me treat everything with the same level of respect. Ignore the bar, jump as high as you can.