Red Tape

It is hard for me to moti­vate myself to do things when I get home from work. Things like call RITA and ask ques­tions about my tax­es, call a den­tist or optometrist to sched­ule appoint­ments, do research and apply to take class­es to get my teach­ing license.

I like to relax, and when the house is clean and dish­es done, the last thing I want to be doing is fill­ing out a loan con­sol­i­da­tion appli­ca­tion on the chest that I use for a cof­fee table. The last thing I want to do is be on hold for 20 min­utes while some tem­pchimp work­ing for RITA fig­ures out some excuse for telling me why she can’t answer my ques­tion, and the last thing I want to do is toil through innu­mer­able pop-up prompts on my com­put­er, get­ting redi­rect­ed through 4 dif­fer­ent sites and 4 sep­a­rate login screens in a quest to find an in-net­work den­tist or optometrist. I just want to sit on my ass and read, or prac­tice gui­tar, or [if I had some­one for to cook or with to run] cook­ing or run­ning. But life is red tape and my enti­tle­ment gland must be act­ing up late­ly. Strug­gle and fric­tion keep the uni­verse going. So when I sit on my ass I guess I’m con­tribut­ing to the heat-death of the uni­verse. So if I do stuff I sup­pose I’m direct­ly per­pet­u­at­ing the exis­tence of the uni­verse. So I guess I should do stuff.

*ZZZZZzZzzzzz.…..snore*