Meandering Thoughts (#9)

Yet, again, I am not going to write what I intended to say, because I did not take the time to plan it all out. The subject matter is complex; my skills, not quite up to the task. It would require several drafts, maybe even a few rewrites, in order to get my thoughts across cohesively. Otherwise, my words would have been a hot mess: an incomprehensible rant of a middle-aged man.   

Sigh. I procrastinated, and with only one hour to put something together, the following is the result. 

(Actually, I have wasted another ten minutes since typing that last line. So, fifty minutes to go.)

(Yes, I am recycling this image. Not just because I have run out of time, and need something. But also, it is a good metaphor for my current situation. However, I can't decide if I'm the girl, and the boy is Procrastination. Or, I am the boy, and the girl is you, the reader. BTW, it is a Norman Rockwell painting.)

Now it is forty minutes. As typing began in earnest, a paragraph of text sprung forth onto the screen. Then a pause, followed by a readthrough. Highlight. Delete. Typing recommences. New text shows up. Clock is consulted. Perused? Ugh. No. Thesaurus is consulted. Clock is checked.

Thirty-eight minutes left.

The writer pauses. Turning his head away from the laptop, he stares into the shadowy room to his right. He engages in an odd habit: making noises with his mouth. A sort of a sigh filled with a vibrating... suddenly he stops, trying to think of way to express it. So he practices making this sound. Repeats. Sitting alone, in his recliner, while the rest of the household, upstairs are oblivious to his current struggles. At least he hopes they are ignoring the strange sounds.  

(Like a child trying to mimic a motorboat?)  

Twenty-nine minutes to go.

Also, the writer, laying (lying? Should he look it up? Fuck it...) reclining (shit, he used that work already) sitting (but his legs are up--looks over the previous paragraphs and realizes he used the noun not the verb). Reclining! 

Also, the writer, while reclining, felt for some time, the urge to pee (urinate? Sigh, there is no nice way to say it). But feeling the tick-toc of a deadline approaching, he hesitates. Going to the bathroom, at the moment, would be time wasted. But writing about it would give him a few more sentences.

(Damn it! While coming up with that change of direction in the narration, he had a thought. A new path. But now it is forgotten.)

Sixteen minutes!

Sigh. (This particular writer tends to do that a lot.) Bladder full, mind unraveling, finger paused, he bangs his head against the headrest of the chair, frustrated. Eyes darting about the dimly lit room, he seeks inspiration. He rewrites that sentence three times, hoping now it is more succinct. Also out of desperation.

And procrastination (Ha! He can rhyme. Big fucking deal.) 

Eleven minutes (looks back at the other three time checks, desiring tyring trying to avoid repetition repeating himself...) REMAIN!

Sigh (Ugh! Seriously? Stop it!).

SIGH (Sigh, I give up...).

And the writer, noticing this story is going nowhere (sadly), recognizing that his procrastination has fucked things up (again), and realizing if he does not pee urinate USE THE BATHROOM (soon), there is going to be hot wet mess (that just doesn't sound right) where he's sitting (it's called a recliner!). 

Sigh (you got to be kidding me...SMH). The writer is done.

Until next time.

Oh, look, two minutes to spare.

(Oh, wait, what about an image for this post...)