Sunday, May 25, 2014

Feed Me Seymour

If all the cities in the U.S. met up for drinks one night after work, D.C. would show up late, bogart the pitcher of sangria, dominate the table conversation, then plop down a ten spot when it was time to split the tab. An hour later, D.C. would make a booty call to a metropolitan equivalent of a 5—Richmond for example—show up sloppy, be lazy in the sack, and not even give a courtesy call the next day.

The point is, D.C. is a taker.

Recently, a work project dominated the lion's share of my free time. Like a tornado through a Kansas City
trailer park, my nights, weekends, even lunches were sucked into the vacuum. And after the storm, like a Kansas City trailer park resident, I was confused, disorientated and left with the question: "Where the hell are my pants?"

D.C. is the type town that will gladly accept all the extra we're willing to give. From our jobs that asks for few hours on the weekends, to the metro which wants our patience while single-tracking, to the homeless who wonder if we have a dollar to spare. And while I believe that accomplishing anything worthwhile requires that we devote the best, and most, of ourselves to it, how do you know when that energy is channeling your life's dreams and when it's fueling a giant man-eating plant?

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