The feather I used t'wear in m'cap is morphing to a load-a-crap

This week I am spending time not doing the things I want to. I am also not doing the things I need to.

If I get off my duff, will it be worth reaping the imagined rewards, or should I just entertain myself with mindless smarty-pants activities? I could read one of a hundred books I have not finished, including the four in my work locker that I ambitiously borrowed from the library on Monday. There is slim chance of finishing one of them, and I am bogged down with endless chores that I need to do to keep a clean and orderly home, which will help please my special lady, and keep her on my side.

I could blow it all off and play one of 20 or so video games that looked like fun, but I have merely played the first half hour of, only to get frustrated and start looking up cheats on the net, which almost always sucks me back into the rabbit hole of link clicking nirvana. I am so bogged down in information by this thing that I cannot decipher bona-fide truth from paranoid ranting or slick hucksterism. (It is truly a struggle to not look up a word in the last sentence on the tubes, only to get sucked back in. I had I minor fit 20 minutes ago because there was something wrong with the connection or my settings which would not let me hook up to the wi-fi.)

Just stopping to create what I love is getting hard, and I have barely started. Seriously, distraction is now the enemy. I could spend some more time eating peanut butter, or I could drink so much more coffee that I cannot sit still. Or I could drink some whiskey and beer and for several hours I can bounce of the floors and walls, only to find myself doing nothing but sitting still for the next three days. Time to make a plan. Create structure in the chaos. Funnel the distraction into a hodge podge of cacophony so as to show anyone who is interested what it is like to be in this skin, and with this brain throbbing with self imposed chains for which the warden chucked the key into the vast freshwater sea. It used to be a vague notion that I was floundering and wasting my ability to scrawl and scribe, but now it is a panic that I feel. Something looms that threatens to stifle it forever.

I read once that Anthony Burgess, author of “Sometimes a Great Notion” and “A Clockwork Orange” found out in his forties that he had some kind of terminal illness, and only had a very short time to live. In that time he was supposed to have penned dozens of novels, all brilliant, only to not die at all. Is that what it is going to take for me to find a reason to organize the mess swimming around in my skull or like Travis Bickle, will I wait until it is too late “...to get myself organazized”.(sic)

So here I am letting it stew and fester online with no filter, wondering if it will cost me something socially or professionally, because I offer it to anyone afflicted with clickadextria. So far there have been no takers and I don't know if I am relieved or disappointed; Probably both. It really does not matter. Thousands of people are doing the same thing and the difference is that many of them have an opinion that others want to point and stare at.