The procrastinator

She went to work every day, Sunday through Saturday. It was a welcome escape from her messy apartment, from her unlucky love life, from pending bills and unreturned phone calls. Her work was nonjudgmental. Pure effort and thought with a dash of schmoozing led to the validation she needed. Everything else was uncertain and damning. She knew things needed to be done outside of work. The nagging persisted in the back of her mind. And perhaps in time she would relent. But now she liked sitting in her office amidst her stapled and opened Word documents, sorting through her thoughts and typing into her soft touch keyboard. Life can after all be procrastinated.