I find that I delay myself up until the point that I scratch my thumbs and inner thigh and convince myself that my bed’s infested with mites. I shift my ass against the upholstery of my chair and open up a bag of Cheetos. I convince myself that by listening to another anthem of M83 or Neon Indian I’d be doing myself a bit of good; prepping and loading myself towards spiraling upward into a Saturday midnight hour of writing and editing and the occasional jerk-off to Food Porn Daily or Google Maps.
Alas, I’m pumping something out while lying in bed; my stomach’s become an inflatable rocker pumped up on excess hot chocolate and Cheetos and my chin’s already gone numb from resting on the pillow.
I’ve had an entire Saturday night devoid of drinking or dinner to get three hours of work done.
Tomorrow’s Sunday, so it’ll have to be done then.
I suppose I wonder why the hell I always hold things back up until the point I realize there’s no more time to get any bit of it done. I’m used to holding things till the very end; that’s what I used to be good at. Cheek with a side order of Red Bull and something salty and carb-loaded; I figured at one point or another the grainy saltiness really gave my mouth a run for its money and so then in some way or another I must’ve really fueled myself up and become ready for the hours ahead.
Today I had a magnificent lunch with my dear friend Tristan, who invited me over to her best friend’s apartment off the Montrose station on the L. Tomorrow I’m running 7 miles across the Williamsburg Bridge for the hell of it and because I’ve told myself that I’d be doing that at 10:30 AM and BECAUSE Lord Knows any time with Tristan deserves an hour or so to reflect upon altogether; I gotta give writing all about it a real go tomorrow, after my run, after my groceries, after, after, after.
I’ve admitted and given into the idea that my procrastination is a temporary, transient characteristic for me, although I’m somewhat convinced I’ve been saying that for years now.
For now though, tomorrow.