Don't bother me I'm writing

I think about quitting my job sometimes. I think about quitting my job and writing full time -- see where it takes me. Then I think I'm crazy. Quit my job -- I can't quit my job. C an I? Life's a gameshow that way. You're given approximately 2.8 billion choices to squander in your lifetime -- I did the math. Some decisions are easy -- or they should be -- wake up, brush your teeth, pick your nose -- eat the booger, don't eat the booger -- go to the bathroom, wash your hands ... It's not a science -- decision making. There's always an exception; some nimrod in front of you at Starbucks or McDonald's -- my husband's a repeat offender -- who can't make up his mind. He spends 15 minutes hemming and hawing over this value meal and that value meal and finally out of pure desperation orders two or three of everything on the menu. We all have our monsters. I can't decide what to wear -- ever . My closet glowers at me like a serial kille...

I wonder if I had a gun; would my husband hear me better? Here I am writing, because I have the day off, and that's what I do on my days off -- I write or try to write through hundreds of absurd interruptions. I can't leave the computer unattended for a second -- I've come dangerously close to peeing my pants several times -- or my husband swoops in to check his Facebook, or his email, or his horoscope, or the 100 pimpest hairstyles for round-shaped faces. He can't be bothered to save my work. He can't be bothered to open a new tab. He sits there scrolling through status updates while I pace the room growling. And finally my absolute favorite part -- like he doesn't notice I'm there -- he "accidentally" shuts down the computer and looks at me with a startled "oops" expression as if to say "I didn't know you were working." It's always something with him. If he's not interrupting my writing time, he's at...