This Time Tomorrow by Sisters Love
Procrastination is an addiction just like any other. While it’s true that there’s much to be found and pondered in procrastination’s idle comfort, it’s even more true that procrastination can be as destructive as cigarettes, weed, alcohol, pornography, and junk food, which may all be consequential byproducts of too much procrastination. Procrastinate comes from three words in latin, cras (tomorrow), then eventually crastinus (belonging to tomorrow), and pro (forward). In the 16th century, procrastinare morphed into procrastinat, which literally means, ‘deferred til the morning.’ In contemporary usage, procrastination means ‘to put off intentionally and habitually.’ Intransitively, according to Merriam-Webster, procrastination is ‘to put off intentionally the doing of something that should be done,’ one of the loveliest definitions in all the English language.
To look inward. I’ve been telling my dog that I’d give him a bath for the past six weeks; he’s been growing impatient. I’ve become paranoid that because of this, he no longer trusts me. He’s also running out of kibble and bags, best to get on top of that. There are countless bureaucratic forms to be completed. I have around 12 short stories and two novels that are not yet finished, that exist over my head like a massive boulder hanging by a thread. I need to call my father, my aunt, my siblings, and my friends. At least a text would do? The phone and wifi bill should probably be paid. My girlfriend hasn’t heard something nice or pleasant out of my mouth in at least two weeks; I’m so performative for everyone else I hang around, rarely for her, though—shouldn’t that be fixed, or at least addressed? Maybe tomorrow. I’ve been going to the gym barefoot for almost a year, I need to buy running shoes. But in order to do this, I must make the dreaded trip to the store. How can I tell which pair of shoes have the right arch support unless I try on each one? Let’s say I go tomorrow afternoon to finally buy the running shoes. While I’m out, I may as well go to the bank to close that unnecessary savings account that has actually been costing me money, and then I could, at last, pick up some groceries. Wait, wouldn’t that be a form of procrastination? There’s surely more important work I should do. I must need a lesson in prioritization. I should make a list of all the things in the world I need to accomplish and then rank them in order of most to least important. Tomorrow, tomorrow I will have time for that, for the doing of something that should be done.
Meanwhile, with all these tasks on my mind and what with the perils of learning to prioritize, I should definitely meditate. This is all starting to sound a bit self-centered, solipsistic. There are more important problems in the world! I must read the news, every headline from the past two weeks, it’s my citizenly duty to stay informed, to know what’s going on. When will I have time to volunteer? Or, at the very least, peak into my finances to put aside some money to give away to charity. Speaking of which, I haven’t gotten my tax returns yet, what’s going on with that? Ah fuck. My plants have to be watered, they haven’t been watered in so long, I’m pretty sure my Philodendron is drying, dying. The pot I bought for the Benjamina Ficus in the corner of my living room is much too small, I have to return it and replace it. This entails a trip to the plant store at the Atwater Market, it wasn’t an e-purchase. And oh no, it’s past the 4-week return period. This will mean an unpleasant argument in French, a language I’ve yet to learn or take a class for, with whoever’s working at the store. I don’t have the energy for that kind of encounter. Perhaps next week.
Two months ago, I moved into a new apartment and halfway through just kind of stopped. The bed was in, the wifi, chair, a few other things. It was functional, it worked. I didn’t have time for all those details. Artwork, well, way too early for that. How about a couch first? Except, if I have a couch, there will undoubtedly be much more time spent procrastinating, which may or may not be another way of saying: living my life—which I cannot, under any circumstance, with good conscience, allow myself to do. And shit, I need to read. I’m like a writer that doesn’t read. No. I’m a writer that doesn’t read, at least not enough. It takes a lot of time to read. There’s over 750 books on my list and 480 issues of the New Yorker that have stacked up, existing in my life like a credit card bill I’ll never pay off. I’m sorry girlfriend, dog, apartment, family, plant, body, tax auditor, rabbi, ‘community,’ everyone and everything else I’ve been neglecting. You may say I’m repeating past mistakes, but again, sorry, I can’t help you at this moment. I have to read now, because if I don’t read, I’ll never be able to write. And if I don’t write, nothing else will happen. Everything, including myself, will fall through a very large, inescapable void. It’s best, in order to avoid this, well, void, to take care of things, to look up, left, right, and primarily, straight ahead, and do, finally, at last, and at once, all that must be done. But now, as determined as ever, I can see clearly that the handle of my sink is spurting out water. The pace and amount of water is slowly beginning to increase. My apartment is now, unfortunately, flooding. I’ll have to put off everything for one more day.