I have finally gotten it into my thick styrofoam skull that my work ethic is corrupt.
I procrastinate with the steadfast discipline and focus of an ascetic. I have the hands of a manual laborer from surfing the Internet so tirelessly, an obsessive Googler’s “tan” (the joke is it’s more of an anti-tan), and a flappable brow sweat from my consistent ability to flourish in the realm of avoidance.
At any moment, someone is going to kick down the door and say, “The jig is up, Nanchy! Come out with your wrists at ease* and your conscience full of half-baked regrets** doing the woulda-coulda-shoulda shimmy.”
*Which really shouldn’t be a problem because I already threw one of my wrists out tonight from excessive web browsing.
**Yeah, you read right. I can’t even follow through with my misshapen guilt.
Anyway, after serving myself up some Olympics viewing, I think I know what I’m missing. A double endorsement deal for La-Z-Boy sofas and one-a-day motivational calendars. Oh, and let’s throw in the best of intentions gone awry while we’re still listing things.
(Why not sleep this one off?! Because I can never sleep! Not when there’s important stuff during which I must doze off the next day! Atcher service! *Wide-eyed leer and jagged bow*)