I am terrible.
I have a problem, something deep seated and so fully entrenched in my psyche as to be fused, as one… blah blah angst blah….
Okay. Truth is: I procrastinate.
‘Yeah, sure, everyone does,’ you may be thinking, nonplussed.
It gets worse.
I’m procrastinating writing. Writing! The thing that I do for a living. That writing.
Which is also rather ironic in that I am the maniac who can bang out the electronic equivalent of a magnum opus in the time it takes Britney Spears to get preggers, leaving countless email recipients reaching for the Tylenol, or vodka, or both (but please people, if it’s both stick to Ibuprofen – acetaminophen turns livers to dust) while shaking their heads wondering if I inject methamphetamines directly into my eyeballs.
I do not.
I do, however, type as fast as I think, and while at many times in my long and storied life this has gotten me into trouble when the ‘send’ button is a mere click away, the minimal amount of actual speaking I do in my day-to-day existence is taken onto the page. Fast.
Except for right now…
Yet, seeing as it’s not yet the 11th hour (I just filed for extensions on my taxes – ha ha! Four more months to procrastinate on that one. Score….ish…. I could use that money….) I’m going to celebrate this lovely, breezy spring day by rolling around for several hours on my bike… Thinking, of course, of what I’ll eventually have no choice but to write….
I am terrible.