On Procrastination

This piece is indeed an act of procrastination—to an extent. However, it often bites me in the bum when I have writing material bouncing around my mind (that is, I’m talking to myself about absurdities completely unrelated to anything of consequence), for when I put it away to focus on whatever task is at hand, it is gone when I return. Yes, excuses.

So I’ll leave this document open for random bits.

I shall drill into my own children one day the ways of life; maybe I won’t do so, because it is painful to see how ignorant the masses are regarding what seems to be common sense. Yes, ha-ha, common sense is a joke. It is a phrase that should be banned. It is cliché to the extent that it quite honestly means nothing (to me, and therefore everyone, right?). Or it should be revised in the dictionary, since that too has much authority.

Spray not, smelly stuff in the house, or anywhere. It doesn’t make anything smell better. Cook something if you must. Or bundle up and open the windows. You don’t smell like roses when you puke Frebreeze or whatever foulness on yourself. You smell like chemicals. Put on deodorant. Light a candle. But, please, spray not.

Yelling does not make you better heard in most situations; it makes you more deaf and thus more likely to yell louder. It is a downward spiral. Don’t do it. There are so many volumes besides loud and louder, explore them, and ask for some input. They lie if they tell you aforementioned volumes are favorable. Or hard of hearing. Acceptable if elderly, unfortunate if young, don’t become that unfortunate youth.

Don’t refer to the good old days. The good old days were worse than the their good old days. Unless you have a concrete example, such as a can opener that has been in the family for twenty years but was bought from a yard sale and works like chocolate on a bad day. Compare that sucker to the brand stinkin’ new can opener that lasted two months made by a reputable company. Then there is an example of good ole days. Back when music was clean? Ha, ha, ha. Listen to Tight Fittin’ Jeans by Conway Twitty and you will realize sexual innuendos and bald-face speak isn’t new.

HAIR DOES NOT GO DOWN THE DRAIN. Lie. It does. And it creates a wad of foulness, that if lucky, one might remove without it breaking and clogging the drain in a slimy bend out of reach. Lucky is an understatement. And realize it will be gross. If only I had taken a picture of that rodent-sized glob of hair and soap-scum that I removed from our shower drain. All of a sudden, the shower did not puddle into a bath. The screw that had to be removed looked as though it was stripped, useless. But, no, it was simply wrapped in hair tightly enough to hold a person on belay. Sick. As in foul.