I waste time like nobody else can. If you want to see an example of unproductivity you have to come to my house and witness how I brutally murder the hours tween waking and midnight when I tend to lose sense. There's the opening of every curtain and the emptying of the dishwasher and the considering of potential breakfasts before deciding I cannot stomach anything at this time in the morning except an entire bowl of strawberries, or if it's a particularly awful day a cookie if one can be found in the back of my freezer (I am currently all out). Then I check blogs, forums and webcomics, all my notebooks in case I wrote anything interesting the night before and my emails. I search for jobs and literary magazines. I send off CVs that can be emailed and I don't send any pieces of writing but I think about it. I delete all my rejections. I dream about what I would do first should I ever find an acceptance. You know, who I would tell first and how I would do it. Automatically I dream of phoning the people who would care but then my brain kicks in and tells me it's rather early and what if people are too busy or they don't pick up or they do pick up and I forget how to speak. None of it matters because I have no acceptances yet.

Then I set myself a task. Yesterday I chose to write the tracklists onto all of my burned cds because I keep forgetting what songs are on what album. This led to thoughts about songs and how so many of them invoke men. Juneau is my ex-boyfriend's poloshirt I used to sleep in and his thick black hair. One-armed scissor was the boy a year younger than me in my music class that I was idly in love with, Wave upon wave upon wave is another one. I miss that class, I picked up a lot of music recommendations. Then there's I predict a riot and an old friend who spoke in hushed tones and got high and asked why I was with such an idiot. Debaser was a girl from Manchester who wrote me long winded letters and Black-eyed boy was a friend's cousin who decided I looked like Sharleen Spiteri. Some of the cds were burned from their own copies when we traded music with spit and chocolate and change for the bus and everyone had to share what we had. It was a constant conversion and my best friend never forgave me when I gave up my ticket to see Blue live and told her every band she adored was shit. Most of them were mere recommendations I followed up on and haven't listened to in years.

Today my concrete plans don't begin until later. Sunday night I found an ARG here about a site called Notes to Mary and I spent far too long this morning catching up. My task was to organise as much of mum's birthday while she's out but she'll probably be home soon. Yay for my ability to murder every hour and get nothing done.