In need of a regimen

For some reason, Department of Eagles' Phantom Other played in my head, along with the Facebook message a former professor sent just last night, about this certain Spaces story I reportedly wrote for his class. I knew it had to be the folio we wrote for my creative writing class, which I edited along with three others, and had it printed and launched in a coffee shop by the campus.

This necessitated me to pay a visit my former Gmail account, which by now has nothing but mailing subscriptions on t-shirts and other merch. Not only did I find out that I didn't have the soft copy of the said folio; I also found out the response of a former classmate-slash-exchange student (the probing question that hovered in the brief e-mail I sent in September 2010 was this: Do you smoke weed?) which, if I remember correctly, was the response I've been waiting for, as my smoking buddies thinned and waned for various reasons--or maybe I was in a deep, existential rut back then. I'm not sure.

I told my professor I didn't have the soft copy anymore, but he said he meant Spaces. The flash fiction piece I wrote for his Sci-Fi class. How can I forget! I had to find the file in my new e-mail address, sans the trappings of my angst-ridden college self. There, lo and behold, was the transcript of my thesis where it was included, and a part of me just couldn't get over the fact that, well, here I am, researching the build for Terrorblade in DotA, playing on a weekend, my son beside me sleeping. Why am I not writing? Why don't I have a theme? Why don't I have a fucking regimen of some sort?