Genetic Roadblock

The universe and my genetics are in cahoots. They’re busy conspiring against my procrastinator tendencies and I’m busy pointing fingers and calling bullshit.

Yes, I know I have a paper to write and a corresponding presentation to prepare. And yes, I am very well aware of the fact that both are due in 22 and a half hours. I’ve been blessed with a memory that’s rendered me a walking chronology. Particularly when deadlines are concerned. It is a memory with capacity for recall enough to make fabled elephants look like Alzheimer'd grandmothers. And accuracy enough to make atomic clocks blush.

Take that and sauté it with a clinical case of failure aversion, and you’ve got me. So why is the universe taunting my genetic predisposition toward perfection? I’ll deliver the goods, you damn junkie, so lay off. Cut it out with the constant phone calls, and for christ’s sake, would you cover those track marks? My psychic landscape has had enough of your good samaritan slash protestant work ethic badgering. You’ve met the day’s quota - thrice.

I’m not asking for much, just a temporary acknowledgement. A hall pass. Procrastination is an art so stop staining my canvas! Just when I thought I’d mitigated my double helix meddling enough to enjoy a few more hours of non-task-at-hand related activities, you tip procrastination’s ink well. And by you, I mean a very disapproving aunt sally “you, universe, you.” No dessert tonight.

Gingersnaps and warm milk are not awarded to amorphous half-matter, half-idea entities. I’d make an exception, but you make it so hard. Smug, you continue to focus my thoughts on the paper and presentation, flexing your i-control-all puppet master muscle while downing a non-copyright-infringement-just-do-it shake. I know the paper is due. You don’t have to take away my phone or all the food in my house to make me write it. Say what you will about me leaving the phone at work and consciously avoiding grocery shopping for weeks. I’m not buying it, sister. It’s all part of your paper-writing scheme and I want a refund. I don’t have a receipt, so I’ll gladly accept store credit and trade it in for a little peace of mind by way of comfortable, non-soul gnawing procrastination.

Thanks. Pleasure doing business with you.