I’m running 3 days late for a 22-article deadline. Might extend for another day if I don’t shut this window down in the next millisec–
And I didn’t.
I’m still here. Rummaging through some Adele songs. Torn between past and future tenses. Grammar twisted and turned. 90 minutes exited and I have had 8 breaks. The usual. Youtube. Chat. And a bit of stalking. No, a lot of it. Productive, eh? I have evacuated to the sala from my room upstairs thinking things would be extra productive without the sight of the bed. I failed myself. Don’t worry, Carmina, I tell myself. The editor, whose face I have never known, is kind enough to understand. A 3-day delay is–okay. Forgivable. You work with average to quality outputs, anyway. Not to mention you work your ass off every night marveling at the essence of that nose hair trimmer review all for a cheap rate. Not bad. Yes, your editor, in fact, will kneel down on you, virtually, and pledge you to work for him some more. With the same cheap rate. With the same fucking nose hair trimmer reviews.
I tell this to myself. Wait, who tell this to what? “You” is now the “I”? And “I” is the new “You”? I don’t get it. Neither do they. We are lost as all the others are.
Blahhberrr Blahhberrr Blahhberrr.
And the 9th break is done and over with. Now, off to work…