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deprocrastination
Tuesday, March 1 2016
Late this morning, I salvaged an unexpectedly light 90.9 pound load of skeletonized Chestnut Oak from the east slope of that high bluff south of Chamomile. Perhaps I assumed it would be heavier because lately my wood has contained more moisture than usual.
I wanted to get some long-procrastinated shit done today, so I used a recently-delivered mortar & pestle to grind up the contents of a capsule containing 25 milligrams of extended-release adderall, the sort used to treat attention deficit disorder. Unfortunately, though, when I opened the capsule, it came apart with unexpected violence, spraying little beads all over my lap and onto the floor, which was (unfortunately) covered with a fragment of low-pile carpet. I managed to recover most of these either by licking my finger and lifting them from the floor or by sucking them up (along with some random carpet debris) using a straw. Grinding up the beads was very easy, though I wasn't sure I could effectively get the powder back into the capsule. So instead I filled the mortar with hot water and drank it directly. I expected it to taste terrible, but it only had a mildly bitter flavor.
I then turned my attention to the tax-related assignment Gretchen had given me. This involved going through our credit card statements (which are available online) and tallying up all the computer and building-related expenses from 2015. This is normally a dreary job that I postpone for weeks, but as the adderall kicked in, the task felt genuinely fun, sort of like a video game.
Later, I further updated my resume and even sent it to some potential employers.
By late this afternoon, the effects of the adderall were still strong and not as pleasant as they had been. I needed a way to come down. But, under my rules, in order to be able to drink alcohol, I had to "buy" the right by creating a work of art. For some reason I chose to paint a monochromatic underwater scene featuring an Ocean Sunfish (Mola mola), the largest bony fish in the world. Though the fish can weigh as much as a ton, my depiction was on a canvas measuring only two inches by two inches. Here is the result:
This evening I paid close attention as the returns for the Republican Super Tuesday primaries came in. (Unlike Gretchen, I was much less interested in the Democratic primary.) As expected, the wins were yuge for Donald Trump, though there were three victories for Ted Cruz and even one for the increasingly-pathetic Marco Rubio. But nobody was more pathetic than Chris Christie, who has opportunistically hitched his wagon to Donald Trump in what amounts to the political equivalent of selling his soul to the Devil. Tonight as he gave Trump a low-key introduction and then stood silently behind him as he talked, it was clear that he was troubled. Multiple tweets suggested that he was perhaps being held hostage and that he should blink in some pre-arranged pattern to let us know that all was not well. Via a Facebook private message, I told Sara Poiron that he looked a little like one of Jeffrey Dahmer's zombified victims.
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