A day in the life of a professional procrastinator.


7:00 am: My alarm is taunting me to get up, get up, get up! I squander time by making small circles in the air with my arms. I bubble my saliva. I smooth my cheeks, smooth my pillow. I rest my eyes for two minutes.

8:00 am: Wake up, startled. The dried slime glues me the pillowcase. I look around the room with an half-closed peeper. I scratch the crunchy granola on the corner of the other. Today, I’ve got myself a deadline. Come on, let’s get a move on! I persuade myself, motionless.

9:00 am: I facebook until the coffee whips. I email and surf the insipid web growling and stretching. I open my work to be done. Definitely another cup of joe before anything.

10:00 am: I toil, swinging my leg.  My toenails look like guitar picks. I jab my claws in my calves trying to get me to punch a clock. The hell with it, let’s get the clipper. Well, might as well take a shower…

11:00 am: The keys of my keyboard cliquety-clack in a silence that my neighbours are destroying with audible conversations filled with nothingness. Ok. I’ll put on music to cover their yakety-yaks.

Noon: I realize that I’ve been raspy weeping with Billie Holiday for at least three songs while my cursor blinks on my document, awaiting orders. I throw my paws on my lap top and boom, I block. Well… shit.  I grumble some kind of appetite. Guess I’ll make myself a cucumber sandwich.

1 pm: I come back to my writing den with cucumbers and Scotch. I place the expensive bottle above the bookcase, out of the reach of my tippy toes. Push it further, making it unattainable. I splosh mayo on fresh bread and slice the cucurbit. Stare at nothing for a bit.

2 pm: I check again if facebook has anything to say. Twenty minutes later, I realize that it doesn’t. Enough! To the dough winning, now! I read what I have done so far. I get discouraged. Dorothy Parker I’ll never be. The blues are making me dark. I turn off the stereo. I notice the dust. I grab a Swiffer.

3 pm: OK! Let’s go! The job won’t get done by itself! I day dream an elf that would liberate me from the didactics and allow me to be just creative. I would call him Watson. And feed him chocolate with fleur de sel … I sigh and force my hands into writer’s hooks. GO!

4 pm: I progress. But as slow as a torture. I feel like smoking a cigarette.  No.  No ifs or butts. You’re not a cliché, you’re not Hemmingway. Dense sentences are dancing on the monitor. I feel I’m putting back the idiot in idioms. I sense failure. I rest my forehead on my fear disguised as laziness.

5 pm: I hesitate, doubt, shilly-shally, wonder, grovel, linger, muck about, fuck around, drag, skepticize, criticize, vagabond, delay, labour, struggle, slave and slack with a vague impression of production. But paragraphs are shelled as an apathetic and indolent rosary.

6 pm: I discover that time has split and has left me with a deadline, chin resting in his palm, tapping his impatience on my desk.  I am facing the void with vertigo of feat that foils my fire.

7 pm: I freak a little. I dive in, ignoring my distracting alter egos ready to dangle time consuming pleasures. Shhh! Mommy is choring painfully but surely. Nothing will stop m … Crap, a call from abroad. It might be important.

8 pm: I panic. My neck is crooked above the screen that illuminates a face probably stuck between frown and lip biting. The idea of not finishing on point and lose my good reputation compels me to go into a spawning hubbub.

9 pm: I bad trip. That’s it. I won’t be able to finish the damn thing. I back burnered my sinecure and they’ll finally discover my usurpation of an expert hack. I will lose my contracts and will have nothing else to lose but my time. Oh, the irony.  And now my brain springs into imperative mode. The dam is opened and the flow rages. I dash, muses between teeth.

10 pm: I write. I rewrite. I erase. I carriage return. I control save. I see the light at the end of the mouse. I will get there despite partial paralysis of my right buttock sitting on my formicated left foot. I glance at the perched bottle. I pull my chair up to it.

11 pm: I go back one last time on the text. I let the burning amber massage my aches from the inside. I dip my USB key into the slot of my thinking machine and backup. They’ll receive it all for tomorrow morning as promised. A click on the trombone and I trumpet “send” aloud.

Midnight: I chow-down on a blowout. TV mouths as a lame dumb ass in the back ground.  I should do my taxes, laundry, see a friend, go the doctor for my thing. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll have a second. I yawn all uvula out.

1 am: I youtube lullabies like a bedridden foetus. Glad I overcame what seemed a rugged and inhospitable mountain. But tomorrow, I’ll start over again. Tomorrow is always the busiest day of my week…



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