Procrastination (h2so4 6)
I could regale you with countless procrastination anecdotes drawn from my personal experience. I could tell you "The Saga of the Rotting Fruit," a true crowd pleaser and oft retold by my friends who are trying to prove a point. I could sit back in a big Laz-E-Boy, light up a pipe like no grandfather I ever had and slowly recount "How I Came to Own 'Mr. Mom' and Other Rental Fables." As the night wears on perhaps I'd be moved to share the more dramatic "Parking Tickets Proffered Not" and "The Case of the Missing W-2s." I would need at least a weekend to cover all the salient points of "Fear and Mold," although "Dust Dragons Amongst Us" would nicely suit an afternoon tea. "Voice Mail Messaging and Further Moral Lessons" is quite painful for me and, of course, "Deadline Dalliance" is a raw and horrific tale of denial, treachery, and abandonment suitable only for the ears of a hardened and mature audience.
I do not take pride in my adventures. I take no solace in my knowledge of procrastination. There is nothing I cherish about my intimacy with the subject. While big, rugby shirted college boys and their dimunitive, pastel clad female counterparts boast proudly in well-lit bars across the nation of their procrastination "skills," and the black-draped artistic types scoff and refer to procrastination as an artform, I shudder with the revulsion only a true adept can feel. For procrastination is neither a skill nor an artform, no more than it is an excuse or a defense. Procrastination is a crime. A danger to friends and loved ones. An ugly blight on the landscape of nascent modernity.
There is nothing pretty about dusty, aged mold. There is no poetry in eight weeks of junk mail strewn about the house. Dirty socks are without nobility. Red-banded utility bills and early morning collections calls are devoid of humor. A dearth of clean cutlery is not an exemplar of the well-lived life but merely indicative of the stupidity of the slovenly. Old milk smells only of death and decay. Procrastinators do not "make" a mess for that implies an act of creation and creativity, a consciousness which the perpetrators utterly lack. Procrastinators do not even generate disorder and confusion. Those qualities are simply the scummy residue left behind in the wake of their heedless passings. But I am too hedonistic to worry about the crime itself. I prefer to sit back with a salvaged mug of coffee and make pristine little lists of Things To Do, plan out my apologies, craft my excuses, and pen reviews of incidental subjects, spending my ten-cent adjectives on the trivial while the editors gnash their teeth and tear out their hair and beat their breasts pummelling me with carrots and sticks and death threats and sexual favors all for an idea I mentioned, half sober, two months back which simply will not take on wordly form in this life or any other.
This is not a skill or an artform or an excuse or a defense; it's not even a Review. It's an example. A shining, golden, glorious example of procrastination in one of its most devious and deadly forms the written word.