I am, alas, disgustingly adept at procrastination; I have elevated the formerly humble pursuit of the minor distraction to a high art. Avoiding my work has become something of an obsession.
Today I was in rare form. By noon I had accomplished the following:
I stared at my freckles in amazement, for quite awhile. I have a lot of freckles that I never noticed. It seemed suddenly important to catalogue them.
I called that long-suffering Sarge long-distance to discuss Victorian costume with him. He obliged me for a few minutes, and then finally cut me off with a terse "What next, celluloid collars?"
I thought about Sarge in a celluloid collar.
I thought about Snape in a celluloid collar.
I thought that they could both pull it off, but only one would and that one wouldn't be Sarge.
I thought about whether Victorian boots would be too '80s. And I don't mean 1880s.
I thought about how my fantasies are becoming repetitive and I would need to come up with something new if I wanted to keep my self-respect.
I drank a whole pot of coffee and then had to walk off the jangles.
I argued with my step-dad about the First and Fourth Amendments to the Constitution.
And then, when I thought I had exhausted all other options and had no choice but to begin my work again, I had a crafty brainstorm and crocheted a little stuffed turnip with a face, for my friend's baby.
So, what do you think? Is he turnip-like?