Getting my Shit Together

Many of my mornings recently have been interrupted with this nagging voice in my head compelling me to: “Get your shit together.” The ensuing conversation is merely synapses firing across my caffeine deprived frontal lobe. Supposedly, this is where higher brain functions such as reason takes place. Before coffee in the morning I hold this notion highly suspect. This nanosecond of inner-dialogue goes something like this:

“I need to get my shit together.”
“What shit, and where is it”?
“I dunno… shit, no coffee.”
“Shit… I’ve said shit in every sentence... humm... Where was I”?
“What”?
“Huh… what was I going to do today”?
“Something about shit.”
“Starbucks”?
“Are you kidding? Looking like this”?
“Drivethrough.”
“Ah… d r i v e t h r o u g h.”
“Keys”?
“Keys in pants… I’ll need pants.”

By the time I get back from Starbucks, and the cerebral jumpstart of caffeine, I’ve moved on to planning a day packed with playing Xbox, riding my bike, napping with the cat and both abstract and general ass-scratching.

I go about my day never stringing any connection between the thoughts of Grad School applications, the GRE, gainful employment, meaningful employment, planning my men’s group yearly retreat, studying for the GRE, updating my curriculum vitae, blogging all the fodder that stumbles in my head, reading the stack of books I’ve denied myself for the last four years and cleaning the house all clamoring for attention.

This is the closest thing to a to-do list I’ve done.

I need to get my shit together.