Procrastination's Whore

I wanna write about something; I've been meaning to do it all day. I swear. But, instead, I've been lying (or is it laying) here in bed being Procrastination's whore. It's totally, like, 50 Shades of Lay up in here. Every time I think of grabbing my grey laptop and sitting up in all seriousness, with my fingers all poised over the keyboard, ready to bang out some really esoterically (appropriate word? Idgaf) deep prose, Procrastination grips my hand in an iron fist and forces me to open...one...more...link to yet another pointless article laced with pictures of Barbie and Ken's wedding day. Really. I totally swear.

So I spend another day doing nothing (isn't that the point of vacay anyway) except watching time blink by until my eyes become overpowered by the Sandman's eyelid anvils and I give in to chaotic dreams that I try to remember upon wakening because they were just that good. So I open my laptop to begin rehashing my dreams when Grey grips my hand in an iron fist and forces me to open...you get the point.

I'm Procrastination's whore. I was hoping for a better occupation, one, like, oh I don't know, paid freelance writer cum awesome acclaimed author.

All this blithering blathering is coming out of my head as I force these words out in an attempt to fight back against Procrastination's dominance over my life.

You see that, Procrastination? I wrote something. Ha! And I'm about to hit publish. So suck it!

And with that I bid you g'nite.

QoMV