What impulse is it in the human psyche, that, when we are faced with daunting mountains of work, encourages the notion that a bottle of wine would be a nice, simple temporary solution to our not-so-temporary problems...
I should be writing a paper for a class right now. But I'm writing this instead. Like, after I rant and rave to the anonymous internet for a few minutes, when I click back over to my Word document my paper will have suddenly written itself. That's ridiculous. I know this.
It must be the fight or flight response inherent in all species. Right now I want to fly far, far away from my computer... maybe down to a bar, but here I stay. I am rigid with the fear that if I stand up I will never sit back down and finish the paper. I'm like a dear trapped in migraine inducing headlights. Like a squirrel who won't stop trying to dislodge the piece of food from the crack in the road even though a car is barreling towards him at a dangerous 40 mph. (Why is a car going that fast in a residential zone? Don't they know there are children playing?!!)
ugh children...
