Starting Over

It's a writing day, so really I'll spend most of it avoiding my desk. I'll think of all the productive things I should be doing instead: laundry, oil change, eating, exercise, cleaning, and so on. And then I'll feel guilty that I'm wasting so much time, time that could be infinitely better spent playing video games. You see, I'm all about conveniently patching over the moral potholes in my philosophy with industrial grade excuses.

I've got to come up with an idea for a play. I told the instructor I'd read something tomorrow. I didn't specify what, so in a pinch I could recite the phonebook on a technicality, but that's not exactly in the spirit of the workshop.

I overheard BF just say, "I am a totemic machine." He is deeply engrossed in the video game that cannot be named. For if I think too strongly on this game, it will consume me in its wanderlust.

The weather is grey and gloomy, perfect writing weather. I'm semi-clean and marginally hungry. I think I'll kick start the procrastination tango with a hearty bowl of Campbell's soup and maybe a stale tortilla. Then I'll pet the cat, take a nap, sort some clothing, and oh yeah, start chiseling.