Thanks to my olympian talent in cramming and procrastination; I’m deluged with commitment backlogs that will make overdue bills in Congress seem as natural as Pamela Anderson’s boobs. Now I want to shriek and perform horrific suicidal acts (I am actually mustering up several ways on how to end my life creatively). It’s not helping at all that my current emotional quotient has the stability level perfected by Norman Bates.
Oftentimes, I daydream of one near-perfect day spent undisrupted, wasted in a hammock where satellite feeds are repelled beyond Pluto, rendering my mobile phone blissfully useless and mute.
Then I’d snap out of the reverie and have a good chuckle.
Cliche would have it that laughter is a good medicine. Whoever started the myth must be an idiot. I would like to personally meet this guy and eventually dispel his illusion with the help of my reliable baseball bat. Sting even provided an oxymoron for this: “I’m so happy I can’t stop crying, I’m laughing through my tears…”
I then shrugged and heaved a sigh. Started inching a way out of my obligations. Gah. Gah. Gah. Gah. Still waiting to feel better but I looked up towards the horizon and saw a blanket of ash, of ominous grey. So much about optimism. Where the fuck is Mary Poppins when you need her?
Moral: Procrastination is a virtue.