I haven’t been working or writing and the temper issues have resurfaced. Writing, as I keep telling myself, is what I’m inherently non-shitty at. Why, then, do I not write on a regular basis? The answer, quite simply, is that my allele for procrastination is unfortunately dominant over my allele for working. Sitting down and actually using this mass of grey and white matter dozing lamely atop my skull is something I cannot bring myself to do very often. Mostly, I’m actually lazy enough to even put off sleeping. I mean, I actually think “Meh can’t be bothered to sleep”. I lack willpower and ATPs, and I have too much fat and resignation in my system already. I’m seventeen, for crying out loud! Why do I loll around all day, waiting for a lightning bolt to jolt me into activity? I should be up and running! I am the power! I can and must do this!
On second thought, there’s always a bar of chocolate and a seventy-nine billionth reading of Lord of the Rings lurking around the corner, nipping all planned activity in the bud. Even thinking about activity tires me. I just wasn’t born a “doer”, folks. I was made to lay back and comment on the trivial activities of my fellow sapiens, and that is all I am remotely good at. Do I see myself as a great thinker, scientist, writer, poet, philosopher, politician, lawyer, entrepreneur, or anything of the sort? No. However, unfortunately, my own musings about myself count for very little because the people around me staunchly believe in my lucky stars. It wouldn’t be polite to disappoint them. So, on that note, I am applying for “higher education”, despite the fact that dropping out definitely sounds less demanding and infinitely more fun. Holy God, that poses a lot of problems. There are tests to appear for, essays to write, recommendations to weasel out, and a life (I’d like to think I possess one) to ignore and put on hold for the next six months. So, I ask myself, am I up for it? Probably not.
But hell, I’ve always liked acts of random cuckoo-ness, so why hold back? I hereby commit myself to this rollercoaster. Something inside me tells me it might not be a Six Flags ride, but one of the awesome rickety little bastards you find in Generic-Name-Abads all over Pakistan, but do I care? No. One thing I know is that my lazy self doesn’t want to die thinking “Hey, wait a min-POOF!” So, despite my misgivings and despite how I truly am not built for work, I’m going to give activity a shot.
Just after I take this power-nap I’ve been putting off, that is.
