Stalling

I really really have to read this book by tomorrow, and it is just not happening. I read the first ten or so pages on Monday morning, and it was so mind-blowingly dull that I haven't been able to bring myself to open it again. Seriously - I got back from class this morning around 11:30 and have done NOTHING productive since then. I: made coffee, which ended farcically when I dropped the cap from my half and half and saw it roll under the fridge - attempts at retrieval with the handle of my Swiffer were unsuccessful, so now I need a new carton of half and half on top of everything else; watched the second season of Extras, today's and yesterday's As the World Turns and The Amazing Race from Sunday; wrote notes to send to my friends through the physical mail; messed around with an iTunes playlist that I'm thinking of making into a mix for the car; surfed around the Internet for hours; ate some mini bagels and dried pineapple, leftover pasta and cookies I made over the weekend (in addition to my daily allotment from the 5-lb bag of Haribo Twin Cherries I crazily bought off of Amazon - I need to cool it with the shopping, I have bought so much shit that I seriously don't need over the last month. For real, the upside of not being romantically interested in anyone is that I'm not crazy all the time, but the downside is that the craziness gets replaced by boredom, and somehow my solution to boredom has become shopping. Like, there's a recession on. Not to mention that I'm convinced that all this sugar is making me pre-diabetic. What the fuck is wrong with me?); drank some wine while gazing intermittently into my fridge and trying to think up a dinner, ultimately settling on more leftover pasta; watched The Biggest Loser, Obama's speech, the rerun of The Office that came on after Obama's speech, The Daily Show and The Colbert Report; contemplated hunting and killing this crazy-ass giant centipede thing that I keep seeing crawling on the walls - I have these stark white walls because I never got my act together enough to hang the stuff I have on my walls, which really puts bugs into sharp relief when they start circuiting the apartment - right now, it's either in the bathroom or the bedroom somewhere, and I really want to just locate and smite it because otherwise I will have no inner peace - most of the time I like it here, but sometimes I hate living in the middle of the fucking woods. 

That all seems like a terribly sad thirteen hours laid out like that.

So now I need to wash my dishes and find/beat the life out of that bug and try to read a little of this book before I go to sleep and try again tomorrow. I don't know - every time I look at it, the mental block grows stronger. I have to read it. I have to. I'm supposed to present a summary and questions to my class, and I can't even fathom the ridiculousness that would ensue if this class were to proceed without guideposts.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I will tackle you, book with the cover that makes you look self-published and shady. I will soldier on through your 200 pages, present in class, and return to my apartment, collapse, watch Lost, probably eat McDonalds because when I'm driving home from this class at 8:30, the siren song of the drive-through is usually too powerful for me to resist, plan my weekend, and generally get my life in order.

One of my professors keeps recommending keeping a journal, and I'm pretty sure she means about our academic work, but sometimes a self-involved rant like this is really cathartic.