One weekend, your friend has to return home, but you decide to stay while he's gone. A better simulation of a writing retreat, you tell yourself. That Saturday, when you return with essential groceries -- cereal and tea -- you realize that you've locked yourself out of the room. The woman at the front desk will not let you get back into the room because your name is not on the reservation. That's the rule. So, you head back home, 250 miles away.
The next day, another friend's father passes away in a far off country, so it's serendipitous that you're there to be with him, and to drive him down to JFK, where he catches a flight to go the funeral.
Back at your retreat, after the hotel is told that they ignored the request to add your name to the room occupants, you hope that the events of the week will jolt you into action, which leads you to wonder why hope ain't working wonders for you like so many people swear that it does.
Perhaps you need to include other stuff in your day, like creating your résumé and resuming learning Spanish. First, however, you need to eat, shower, and make chai. Perfect, and it has only been over 6 hours since you woke up this morning.