Crossing the threshold, he wonders why he was cursed with such a healthy heart, and whether there's any alcohol in the house. Falling into his favorite armchair, he slowly and deliberately cracks every one of the knuckles, reflecting that it's about time he got arthritis. Four hours of television. I honestly wish there was something I could write about, but that was it. After a while, well, it gets pretty boring.
Lunch is the same, as usual.
As with the watching of the television, there isn't much that a writer keen on keeping his reader interested can report. When he got up to go to the bathroom and brush his teeth, he made a detour to the kitchen in order to throw away his pop bottle. By seven o'clock this evening, John has devoured an admirable portion of Mr. King's novel, but, rather than forge ahead and finish it, he decided instead to once again fill his belly. Unlike breakfast and lunch, he actually has a choice when it comes to what he shall take for his supper. Recalling that he hadn't had any Italian food in quite some time, and remembering something he had once read about marinara sauce tending to spoil without giving off any fetid odor, he elects to call Pizza Hut for an order of spaghetti with said sauce.