Upon waking from a troubling dream about cellos, Gregor Samsa sniffed and realized he had a bad case of psychetosis. Bad breath of the soul. Still, he thought, better than the bug problem back in the old days. He wrote in his journal a while and cheered himself up by making a plan to improve his life. The plan looked like this:
- Eat less, and better. Pack a lunch for work every day including fruit and water. Benefits: feel better, lose weight, leading to even more feeling better.
- Work on writing every day for at least two hours: one in the morning and one at lunch. But regularly.
- Pay attention to kids.
- Pay attention to wife.
He also decided to consider ways to earn extra money. And ways to actually submit writing for publication.
Then his wife came into the kitchen and they ate toast and with a what, he forgets, with a well-timed shrug perhaps, he made her choke on her tea, nearly spraying it out her nose. He entirely forgets the context, simply that the timing of some simple thing had been so good that she did the drink thing. He paid close attention, because he had decided to. And because his older daughter owes him a Euro if he makes his wife spit her drink, and two if it comes out her nose. But no luck that morning.
Still, it cheered him up. His plan was already working.