You don’t see couches very high on the official list of addictive substances. Heroin is the star of that roster; everyone loves heroin—even people who don’t use drugs (like me). But the problem with heroin is that it’s got a bad face, and first impressions matter; heroin essential looks like dirt. My couch on the other hand, looks VERY inviting: plush cushions, throw blankets, back support, and a sexy chaise that competes so hard with the bedroom, even my mattress is like “Dude, WTF.”

While heroin has a well-documented power over the lives of its abusers, I’ll abuse the shit out of my couch without a second thought about its equal power to destroy an afternoon of productivity. But in the end, the couch, too, is a lie; it’s a distraction from my other addiction: self-delusion.

I wandered into the kitchen and milled about in circles. This was me pretending to enumerate a quick list of nothings to which I could then feign choosing between—just before choosing nothing at all. “Choosing nothing is a choice,” my wit would say. And I’d have trouble arguing with a wit like that, whose heart lies in fundamental truth. Brilliant. I’ve done it again.

The sound of the dishwasher running in the background had me consider it: whether it felt the effort of anger over my lack of productivity was worth its voicing. It churned on, obnoxiously, and refused to speak to me. I returned the favor and swung by the recycling bin. With the remaining bottles of Sam Adams depleted, I checked my phone.

A fellow writer had messaged me, and in good form, threw salt on the wound; he’s been pounding away at a short novelette over the past two weeks and wanted to make sure I was up to date on his time card for this week.

“I’ve spent almost every minute writing. I’m eating now, and then I’ll probably finish it off”.

Fuck.