Mired!

I can't seem to do anything but watch football on TV today. This is fucking pathetic. I should be doing something productive. I should be doing anything, anything at all not involving football on TV. Don't you think I know this? But here I am. Postively mired in the quaqmire of mind numbing, keep-the-proletariat-masses-happy-with-shiny-shiny-NFL-football.

Part of this, perhaps, can be blamed on my blossoming love for fantasy football and the strange new importance it lends to otherwise dull and meaningless games (I'm watching the Redskins-Cowboys game just to make sure T.O. doesn't catch two touchdowns). But I think the majority of the blame can be pinned on my lazy, lazy ass.

What I really should be doing is writing. Right? Write! But that's what my conscience always, always, always thinks I should be doing, and it drives me crazy. Sometimes I actually don't write anything for days just to teach it a lesson, which just makes me unhappier overall and sort of feeds into the wicked cycle of laziness-as-internal-weapon.

At least I'm doing my laundry right now. Sometimes, on those dreary Johnny Cash-type Sundays, I can't even make myself do that, and I end up waking up early to do my laundry on Mondays and often wear kahki pants to work still damp from and overloaded dryer.

I can never decide if it's good to keep constantly busy, so much so that life passes very quickly, or to sort of hang around and mull it all over. That's what you're really doing when you write; you mull, you mull and mull, even if you don't really know what "mull" actually means or what it's derived from.

Farming?

I am way too lazy to be a farmer.