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I have succummbed once again to the devilish midnight succubus of procrastination. My wobbly stabilizing peg-leg pseudopharmacopoeia of glucose and caffeine have become brittle under the weight of fatigue and I reckon my eyelids could slam down with greater force right now than a right hook of Ali in his prime. My sole consolation in this time of deep regret is that I can call “procrastination” by its true, magical, scientific first name! You’re the Planning Fallacy, you sneaky, underhanded, black-eye waste of time! I’ve got the jump on you now, you surreptitious drain of effervescence! “Planning fallacy!” *snicker* “Planning fallacy!” *guffaw* I point my determined and not-droopy middle finger at you and laugh. I huff air and guffaw like a stoner taking a hit. I point my finger at you because you’re at a distance. You’re far away and receding ever farther like a vehicle from a hit-and-run victim and your named and depersonalized form rolls bloodily behind me on the road of my history, a tattered rag, torn and pulled to pieces by this triumphalist victor, whose fisted hand, weighted down by a tiredness of countless sleepless ages, bears downwards and strikes and rends into pieces innumerable your partite and dessicated corpse. You’ve no more power over me, Planning Fantasy, you wax-eyed piece of clay! You did not plan for this!

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