Tis the (Lenten) Season

I've been having trouble getting things done recently, and it's all due to this terrible feeling called "just not wanting to."  Sure, I'm a pretty self-disciplined person, but when "who cares if it happens" hits, it's pretty hard to fight back.  I can only imagine that it's somehow similar to how my ex-"friend" felt everyday when he could have exercised or read a book or bettered himself in any way, shape, or form, and instead chose to smoke multiple joints and drink 2-3 beers on his porch with people ten years his junior.  Except that my respiratory and digestive health are generally unaffected by this recent languor, and I still manage to get shit done like going to doctor's appointments or committing to...anything.

Not that I'm still bitter, of course.  I'm totally great.  I've moved on.  Hooray, me.

What is affected, however, is my writing.  Just about anything will keep me away.  Those dirty dishes in the sink?  Can't possibly leave them for another second.  This puzzle book I can't figure out?  Has me completely rapt.  This article on the benefits of vegetarianism?  Must click, even though I'd rather die than give up pepperoni (then again, it'll probably give me cancer in the long run, so we'll call it even).  Yesterday, I didn't even have a reason to procrastinate.  I set my microwave timer to an hour and a half, and then half an hour later proceeded to decide that I just didn't feel like writing anymore.  I even negotiated with myself that I would write later in the day, and then I didn't do it.  Didn't even think about it.

The real snake of Eden,* though, is Netflix.  Boy, do I love me some Netflix.  Over the last week, I've probably spent twenty hours on my couch watching Netflix.  I can't even stop saying Netflix, I'm so addicted.  Even when I can't find a single thing I want to watch, I still watch Netflix.  I think, "Well, two and a half stars really isn't that bad," and then I waste two hours on a really horrendously bad movie that probably didn't even deserve a single star.

Thankfully, the crest of dawdling has crashed at just the right time.  Mardi Gras is over, and Lent is here.  Time to give up all that shit I really shouldn't be eating or doing anyway (like saying shit more than once in a blog post), and refocus on what's important.  Time to combat procrastination and drive away the shadow of sloth that has settled over my intellect and killed countless brain cells.  Time to give up Netflix.  Sure, I'm a little nervous that I'll have nothing to do and someone will find me on the floor in a few days, my dehydrated cat licking the glazed eyeballs of my over-bored skull.  But I'm also hoping that the time not spent watching the fictitious lives of Parisian talent agents--or the fictitious lives of anyone--will be time spent on more productive things like fixing up my backyard and planning my summer travels and actually sitting down and revising my book, which is taking forever because I keep putting it off.

I'm also giving up online dating because it's terrible and time-consuming and depressing, and I just can't do it to myself anymore.  But that has really nothing to do with Lent or sloth.  On the bright side, though, I do expect it'll free up some time, so if I die an old maid, I'll at least have time to write about my cat.  Am I right?



*I know snake of Eden isn't a saying, but I just kind of want it to be, and now I've committed to using it even though it doesn't sound quite right.  Please forgive my improper use of prosaic license.