I'm sitting here,

listening to Howie Day's "Collide," wondering if and when my roommate is going to get out of bed, thinking about all the things I should be doing and need to do, and pondering why I put myself through this on a regular basis.

Is there something fun about stretching myself thinner than the facade of truth on George Bush's statements about the response to Hurricane Katrina? Do I secretly enjoy running around like my five-year-old brother on a sugar high? Am I in denial about being a masochist?

Quite simply, I think the answer to each question is a blatant "no."

Why?

Well, I'm going to blame society. I'm going to blame credential inflation. I'm going to blame unrealistic expectations of my age group--the multi-tasking generation. Essentially, I'm going to blame everyone and everything except myself. (If my field says aleatory factors are the way to go, who am I to argue?)

Seriously, I'm not allowed to just write this. I have to be doing something else at the same time, i.e. reading or carrying on an instant messenger conversation. The key here is not productivity or purpose, but rather action. (Just pretend you're running for office and need to look like you're doing something, so you pick up a couple kids, kiss their grubby little foreheads while trying not to grimace, and then vow to add a soap provision to Food Stamps after getting elected.) That's right. You're not allowed to just be reading this either. You better be multi-tasking or the Anxiety Troopers might storm in and force you to open a book and some Word documents. (They're the bastard children of the Patiot Act Police. Be scared. They're ten times worse because they have ten times less power. We all know how low-level bureaucrats try to pretend they're in charge.)

Anyway, the point: I'm surrounded by piles of books and mail and pajamas and notebooks and I don't even know where to start. So I thought I would try to write something unrelated to my futile attempts at getting an education. So much for that. . .