Distracted

I'm certain that if more had been known about A.D.D. when I was a kid that I would have been so labeled. Okay, maybe not. Perhaps it's something that I've developed in adulthood, but I'm clearly afflicted. Sometimes my mind is all over the place and there's no sense in trying to do anything about it. I'm like that right now. I have 37 things to write about right now, but then again, my mind is blank. I have nothing to say, and yet I have so much to say. I want to write right now and I want to do something else first, and then come back to writing in an hour or so.

Perhaps I'm overwhelmed. I've got so much going on right now. There are 15 applications open on my screen right now. There are 8 tabs open on the web browser that I've got open. My phone is ringing. I've got the TV on and am half looking at a West Coast Conference semifinal game between St. Mary's and University of San Diego. Now my mom is talking my ear off and I'm realizing that writing is a lost cause tonight. I've got a load of laundry on my bed that needs to be folded and some dishes that need to be done in my kitchen. But this couch is so comfortable. Should I really feel bad about this lack of productivity or just accept it and move on. Van Gogh didn't create a masterpiece each time he picked up a brush. Or did he?

My eyes hurt. I'm not going to beat myself up about this for much longer. I just don't have it tonight. Play defense. Get a rebound. Take a charge. Make a pass. Do anything but pack it in. There's got to be some redeeming quality about this short passage. I can't see it, but maybe somebody will glean something from it. Maybe I should submit it for psychoanalysis so that they can tell me that I've got mad issues. Call Nurse Ratchet. Make sure there' s a bed available for me. I'm done.