It's 8:37 as I write this. I've been awake for three hours.
In that three hours I COULD have been doing the workly work that I need to do this weekend, getting the first big chunks bitten out of the gigantic elephant I have to finish eating by Tuesday. I could have. Really.
But no. I have been reading through the Fark and CakeWrecks archives instead. FOR THREE HOURS.
What the hell is wrong with me??
Nevermind. Don't answer. Your words would be too close to the hard harsh truth, which might make me cry while looking into the mirror of self-recognition. You are good to me, my dears, your willingness to hold me up to a stalwart standard of being to which you know I should ascribe pierces me through my moistly thwunking heart. You hurt, good friends, you hurt me with your honesty, your disappointment at my laziness, your soft tongue-clucks and gently shaking heads. I can hear your sighs, barely audible, but the mysterious weight of sadness with which they are breathed is like a lion's angry roar in my soul.
So I go now, to begin the long and arduous downloading, the back-breaking copying and pasting, the sweaty business of document conversion and formatting. Oh, how I shall labor to get back into your good graces (and to save my ass from being pink slipped during the holiday season). You have shown me the folly of avoidance and evasion, and thus I go to face this job head on, strong in the knowledge that you, my friends, will cut me to ribbons with your virtual hard stares should I be caught with my figurative pants down at delivery time.
With that, adieu.
(Exit, stage right, yanking up literal pants, just for a laugh.)