Dead-lines...

I work at one of those jobs where more is never enough and I'm on the giving end. I could spend 10 hours a day there and still it doesn't seem that everything would get done.

Almost every day is a race from an office chair working on computers that barely work with programs that can make Bill O'Reilly look reasonable.

Every week I get one writing assignment and every week I get so excited to work on it. To write.

And then I write.

With the already short amount of time at work, I never really get to have fun writing. I paste together bits of news releases and wikipedia into a sort of mosaic of information with no real direction or purpose. Nothing I'm very interested in anyway.

When I have to write something I'm not interested in, or spend most of my time staring at the clock waiting for the deadline instead of focusing on how cool this information could be if I weren't so distracted, that's when I feel bad about what my final product will be.

Luckily for me, or not depending on how you look at it, there's not much of a bar to raise in terms of writing for a bunch of American geriatrics who would probably get offended if I included words like nipple, underwear, poop, bum, Obama or moist.

Whenever I work with information I don't necessarily care about on an already stressed timeline, I turn into a monkey packing shit together like it's going to save my life.

Remember Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters when he was using his fork to frantically plaster a mountain of mashed potatoes on his plate? And he looked at his wife and said; "This means something."

I'm him.

And sometimes it's just so hard to convince myself that this means something.