Finite and Precious

Dear Writer,

I’m trying to think of my fucks as a finite resource. Put them in a budget. Like, I get five fucks to spend at any given time. I’m imagining them as little magnets that sit on the refrigerator of my life. And that’s all I get; five.

One goes to my immediate family. Another, to the people on my one-inch square. Two go to my work, and by that I mean, this work. Writing, Chipperish. MY work. I give my work two fucks because while it’s not more important than my family, it asks way more of my energy, both physical and emotional.

So that’s four down, and that gives me one floater fuck to hold in reserve for unexpected things that actually matter. And you know who I’m not going to spend my one precious fuck on?

The person who maybe didn’t realize I was smiling when I waved them on.

Finite. Precious. Fucking. Resource.

I’m trying to keep my floater fuck in hand, for temporary but special things, like the vacation weekend I’m planning with my best friend, or when I move out of my house. If I waste that one precious remaining fuck on something stupid in the meantime, I won’t have it—or the energy it represents—to spend on something that actually matters.

Everything,

L