I'm getting a little bit concerned here...

I've finally realized that I have an affliction. A scan of WebMD yields not much of use in combating it. In fact, there doesn't seem to be a name for my affliction, so I'm going to coin one right now:

Work Attention Deficit Disorder, or WADD. I have WADD.

WADD is characterized by an inability to either produce at work, or to care about falling performance or production. It's symptoms include:

* Staring at the computer monitor for long periods of time.
* Fascination with obscure, irrelevant or abstruse miscellanea on the Internet.
* Maniacal revenge fantasies over insignificant or imagined insults.
* Decimation of break room snack machine contents.

These are just a few of the symptoms of WADD. Further research is required, as is gobs of government funding to treat the disorder, which will promptly be used to acquire bathtub loads of fruity tropical cocktails in exotic locations.

Seriously, though--I can't get my head in the game. I feel like I've been pushing this rock, Sisyphus-like, up a mountain and it's about to roll over me like, well, a big-ass rock. What really concerns me is that I don't care. I. Just. Don't. Care.

Well, except for the inevitable embarrassing explanations I'll have to give to my friends, family, and (gasp) wife. I guess pride keeps me going at it every day.

I remember back in the day...

I was selling computer training to small business owners in Missoula, MT. Well, that's what I was supposed to be doing, but I don't recall ever making a single sale. After a while it got surreally stoopid. My job was to call up local businesses and pitch them computer training. Problem is, in a state of about 800,000 people, 500,000 of which are college students, the pool was very small. And what the hell do I need Microsoft Werd for? the ranchers would ask.

"Beats me," I'd say. "I just read the script they give me."

Back then, I had a hard time figuring out how to get out of bed in the morning. That time is characterized by memories of me sitting on the edge of my bed in my shitty little rented room, staring at my feet as the sun came up and the snow fell down outside the window, wondering if I should just throw my crap in a bag, throw it in my car/truck/Jeep (I went through all three in about a month), and head home. Screw the job--I'm leaving. Just like that.

About this time, 9/11 happened. My already tenuous grasp on the computer training sales job collapsed completely. I was "let go," but I hesitate to say I was fired. The company was going under anyway, and they did the most logical thing they could--they removed all the dead wood first.

I could hardly blame them--I was almost grateful.

But this morning I found myself doing the same thing--staring at my feet, a head full of dissipating nightmares draining of their color and force, leaving just a vague sense of doom. What if I just didn't go to work today? What's the worst that could happen? I'd lose my house? Don't tempt me!

Something's gotta give. I've got to get this moving business up and going. I'm finding myself unemployable, and even though that's a prerequisite for being a writer, my manuscript is...ah...not quite finished.