My thumb jabbed at the buttons of the remote, making clips of TV shows flash across the screen. A plump lady with a British accent rolled out dough on a kitchen counter, an American fired a gun from a moving car, dolphins leapt from the thrashing surface of a grey sea and swished their tales against a bright topaz sky.
I switched the screen to black and sighed. Nothing was holding my attention, everything obscured by guilt. My mind knew that I was procrastinating, and it was willing to make me pay for it.

“You’re being lazy.” I thought I heard a voice mutter.

It was the truth. I was being lazy and irresponsible. I hadn’t written a blog post in days. But that was about to change.

Feeling proud of myself, I pulled the laptop onto the couch and began to type, pouring my ideas out onto the page. It was a story, a thrill-packed action short about a celebrity chef, abducted by a mad gunman and fed to rabid dolphins with razor-sharp teeth.

As I was moving the laptop closer, I didn’t even notice the pile of papers, an unfinished report, tumble into a scattered pile on the floor. Work could wait, I told myself. I had only just stopped procrastinating.

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