Time is a bitch.
There’s always something to get in the way of what we want to accomplish. It could be the day job, it could be family obligations. It could be surprises like your kid picking a fight with the rabid badger in the back yard or your brother calling because he woke up in the middle of Tijuana with a hangover and no pants. Hell, sometimes it’s just tough to do anything but sit your fat ass on the couch and watch shitty reruns on TV.
This is why you have to make time your bitch.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: This is reality. If you climb in that souped-up DeLorean with your mad scientist neighbor, a lot of strange and uncomfortable things are going to happen, and time travel is not going to be one of them. If a mad Englishman whisks you away in a magical phone booth, it means you’ve been partying just a little bit too hard and you’re going to wake up stranded in Tijuana with no pants.
So no, you can’t time travel. Instead you have to make time your bitch by viciously protecting the time that does belong to you.
Making time is not enough. Nobody respects your time but you, and if you’re really honest with yourself, you don’t respect that time nearly as much as you think you do. Time is your bitch and you’re her pimp, dealing out pain and punishment to all who threaten your territory. Curbstomp those shitty reruns (I did)! Tell your brother to stand on the nearest corner and earn his own damned bus fare home!
Point being: prioritize, and make sure you—and those around you—respect those priorities. If that makes you an asshole, so be it. They’ll either get over it or you’ll realize you weren’t near as close to those people as you thought.
This may even mean re-evaluating your sleep pattern. Getting six hours of sleep a night is one of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s six secrets to success:
I can function on six hours of sleep, easy. If I wake up at 6:30am, I don’t need to be in bed until 12:30am. Given the time my family goes to bed, this gives me an average of about two hours a night of quiet time to write. If I stop dicking around on the Internet—in other words, I give my own priorities the respect they’re due—that’s a lot of time. Ten hours during the work week alone adds up fast.
If I’m still having trouble, then there’s Arnold’s top secret seventh secret to success:
That’s right, the evac plan. The Exit Strategy. Got a boss who demands sixty-hour work weeks? It may be time to seek alternatives.
No, that’s not going to be easy. You’ve got bills to pay and mouths to feed, and if you listen to the media, the job market is a barren, radioactive wasteland populated by ravenous cannibals.
Suck it up, Sally. Touch up the resumé, put on your hazmat fighting trousers and make time your bitch.