Hurry up will you

My day was going well enough and then I woke up. I was tired, I knew I would be late, but I decided to reset the alarm. You know those days when you just can't force yourself out of bed. Had breakfast, took a shower, managed to convince myself work was worth going to. And then it all broke down. Should I take a book to work or to do some reading at lunchtime or not; a relatively simple deciscion for a tertiary educated, employed, concious Homo Sapien Sapien. If I took the book it would weigh down my bag, it would mean I would read at lunchtime, instead of writing this blog or some poetry, instead of doing something infinitely more productive.
And that's it, the day is over, I am stuck, looking at this book, this simple collection of pulped, bleached, acid-washed paper and ink that anyone else would have stuck up their arse and fucked off with by now. But i am locked to this very spot, by a force stronger than the gravitational field of a black hole, by a force stronger than destiny, stronger than God. It is the simultaneous recognition of the infinite possibility woven into life, of the million paths irrevocably altered by my just choosing whether to fart now or later. I am the Hamlet of the workstation, the Adam of the takeway restaraunt, the Faust of the public toilet. How can one ever make a decision with tomorrow staring them down in accusation.
So I don't take the book.
Hey enough already.