Further Delights

In keeping with the usual racket, this being the ineptitude of the majority of the student population, with allowance for certain exceptions (like the strange people that write books at the age of 17, about knight-river gods or some other dross), I have left an essay, due in at 3.30pm sharp tommorow, till today. Although I did dissapear off to Starbucks on sunday afternoon to write, and write I did, I still have another 500 words to complete, and my mind is in a mental funk.

I feel as thought the problem may be inherent in the room I live in at the moment, a simple all-purpose room with a sink and a space for shoes, that sort of thing. It feels as though the Chi is being blocked somewhere, or the wai is being clogging im my third chuckra of whatever the particular religion maintains, but this room remains a symbol of my free time, where I may do whatever, a base of operations. This would be true however, if I didn't have a crippling fear of the library. For some reason, the silence in a library makes me very uneasy. I feel as though people are judging the way I breathe or hold a book, and every time I look at someone, I'm afraid that they think im a drunk that is about to go mental. It's a very specific fear, that last one, but I've been told I have that look about me.

So what do I do? I can't work in two areas that are technically specifically designed for working. In all senses, it seems as though I'm buggered. AHA, good sirs, for you see, there is a particular brand of establishment that offers sugary and caffine based goods, and so, it would appear the day is saved. Ah, But I guess it closes at 5. Ah. And the time now is 11. Ah. Well, I suppose I'd better get back to it.

Ah.

The Relationships between Otherworldly Forces and Chronic Procrastination

My Internet collection of insane works has been somewhat neglected, and I am to blame. Many analysts have been collating information on this lax of public service, and all of them have agreed that the source is either me being a distracted late-adolescent, or simply cosmic forces guiding my every move. Or is it the third option, that I simply have become too famous to continue such a paltry exercise. No. All the analysts agree that it is most likely that I am a distracted adolescent.

But then again, the term analyst is described in the Pocket Oxford Dictionary, 2008 Edition as someone who;

"1. Analyses in detail"
and;
"2. Psychoanalyses"
and finally;
"3. Harbours a deep seated hatred for all writers"

So, concluseively, the worlds sharpest minds are effectively out to get me. But then again, the term "Analyst" has the word "Anal" at its peak, which frankly, cannot be ignored.

A fourth reason, that I have just thought of, which could in fact be considered option 2b, due to it's undeniably cosmic nature, is that the on the eve of my most successful post, entitled "With a little help from my friends..." which gained over 1 reader(s), I immediatly became disenfranchised with the concept, that is, until tonight, the 11th of the 11th, out of which both numbers contain a 1. Coincidence?!

I have just thought of something again (an occurance that disturbs me greatly), option 2b, could also be considered option 3b, due to the aspect alluding to fame, and its various connotations.

I resolve, as an early resolution, to resolve to change my solution to my problem, which is in fact the solution the the revilement I hold myself entrapped in. I shall, write more often.

Goodnight.