My brain won't let me concentrate on any one task. It has this scattery idea that, all of a sudden, I am an Artiste Extraordinaire.
Comics, ever considered comics? it whispers to me. That not-drawing thing you got going, we can fix that. Photography, you know, photography is cool. Ever considered micro-fiction? Or how about acrylics and oils? You know, carpentry would be pretty ace. My brain has not, so far, suggested I take up either songwriting or singing — because even my brain on whatever it's on that has it skipping and hopping all over the braincase recognises utter futility as a waste of time. (Mind you, it's only utter and extreme futility that tips the scales. The closest I've come to carpentry is that spice rack I made somewhere in the depths of high school, and some random sanding moments since. Painting, and drawing? Yeah. Not so much with the talents there. And photography? I don't even own a working camera at the moment.)
I have been self-medicating with the first season of Scrubs, since it was only $16 when I went in to buy a copy of Garden State. Consequently, I am now walking around the house singing I can't do this all on my own, no I know, I'm no superman. My cat, in the wise way of cats, ignores me.