I have been sitting at my desk all morning, working on miscellaneous, unrelated stuff that really isn't what I can remotely call work. But justification is the almighty qualifier. I figured I shouldn't really work because I was waiting for the tow truck to arrive and pull my car out of the slick of snow in which it was stuck. Waiting for his arrival needs my full attention. Shouldn't get too involved in any writing project, such as my column which is due today, with the possibility of the tow truck arriving at any moment. Seems plausible to me.
Ahh, such is the mind of a procrastinator. I can justify twiddling away the hours in such a believable manner that most people would nod in unison, agreeing with me. But somewhere in the crowd there is at least one nonbeliever. Someone who sees right through me. Actually, forget the crowd. That nonbeliever is me.
The tow truck driver has come and gone, the car is back in the garage. Nothing much more I can throw up in the way of excuses now, save I need to finish this blog entry. Time is still crawling by and the page in the split screen in front of me with my byline on it still has nothing written underneath it. As my father was fond of saying, "it's not going to write itself." No, I must do that.
Wait. First, I better check on the kitchen. Make sure there aren't any dishes in the sink or bits of food scraps that need to be swept up. I can't write knowing my house is mess, after all.
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