Procrastination station

I guess I was under the misguided assumption that procrastination ends outside of the academic realm.  I thought I would never have to pull a single additional all-nighter for the rest of my days, save the possibility of a 13 hour baby delivery or maybe trying to move out of an apartment before the 5 a.m. lease expiration.  Sure, I expect to stay awake all night for various reasons, but they tend to be enjoyable, music-filled, wine-flowing, kind of evenings with bonfires and sunrises.  I could not have prepared myself for this sudden return to the stranger nocturnal side of college: tenth cup of coffee in hand (I've done the legwork on that coffee-inducing-hallucination theory), staring wild-eyed in the blue glow of an overheated computer monitor, the pulsing cursor on the word document nothing short of Chinese water torture.    

FREE LANCE GIGS ARE A CROCK.  Or, I should say, GHOSTWRITING gigs are a crock. Of poo poo.

As is life, so are cats.

This is what Nigel likes: big empty laundry baskets.  

So is it a little lame that my first post is a heavily-edited, bleak, somewhat defensive photo of my cat?  I haven't "blogged" since my all-too-sincere livejournal days, and I'm feeling a little like the new kid on the playground; how do I make new friends around here?  Maybe that's not how blogspot works; maybe that's a Myspace thing.  So I will channel the cat and write with cool, aloof poise that indicates my empty comment space goes unnoticed. 

Though I am clearly here of my own accord and hardly forced to participate, this is the only time I will admit to a reluctance to name this thing I am adding to my lifestyle (Today: wash clothes, buy groceries, eat veggies, blog).  Oh well.  The convenience and seduction of casual messaging media is great (re: powerful, large, imposing) and I am not immune.  

But consider this my solemn vow: I may blog, but I will NOT "tweet."