2004-04-30

Procrastination is a weird headspace to be in. The singular drive to not be doing whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing warps your perspective, magnifying everything around you to a distorted state of hyper-fascinating detail – “Dear God, what is that under my fingernail? I must know, I SIMPLY MUST!” – like some bizarre psychosomatic acid trip. The minutiae of daily life become irresistibly alluring simply through the fact of their being not what you’re avoiding, as your mind desperately gropes for any distraction from its looping litany of self-recrimination and self-indulgence. Deadlines come and go like ebbing tides as you painstakingly construct a miniature replica of St Paul’s Cathedral out of paperclips and Post-It notes, frenziedly detailing tiny ballpoint frescoes like Rain Man on PCP.

This leads me to theorize that I could actually be a productive, dedicated, hard-working person, if only I could fool my brain into believing that my duties were just time-wasting frivolousness. I mean, I do believe that, essentially – my highest aim in life is to lie on the couch as much as possible – but clamouring supervisors and frantic e-mail reminders tell me otherwise. If somehow I could brainwash myself with a series of reverse-psychology commands, I’d be the most productive person on the planet: “Robin, whatever you do, do not finish that priorities report. There’ll be time enough for that kind of nonsense when you finish doing a Google search for ‘monkey tube sock arthropod’ as ordered. And don’t forget to sort all your highlighters by colour and length. Now get cracking!”