This morning I don’t know what to write.

I’m planning to do a post on procrastination, but I’m putting it off.

Sorry. Both things are true, though; I’ve had a lot of conversations over the years with my students about procrastination, and I have some things to say about it — but I don’t want to do it now. Partly because I am fairly close to my maximum stress level, because I’m waiting for an email today that will tell us whether or not we get to move into the place we want to move into, or if we’ll have to compromise even more; and partly because I am in the middle of some fairly serious procrastination for school, because I am not keeping up with my grades. And so because I am doing it, I don’t want to write about it for fear that I will strip away my own illusions and excuses, and then I’ll have to grade things. And I really can’t take that right now.

I want to write a whole post of bad jokes. I love bad jokes. But they actually need to be clever, and I’m bad at clever. I’ve been trying to get one to read right, about sneezing into a mustache, but I can’t make it move.

I want to write about what’s bothering me, about trying to find a new rental; but I already did that, and I don’t know what else to say other than to repeat the same things I said before: renting is a terrible thing, landlords are generally terrible people, the internet has made it even harder to find a place because there’s no longer one source to turn to for listings, like the Classified ads used to be.

Then there are all the things I should be writing about: the wars  around the world, and the likelihood that the U.S. will be entering one so that Trump has something to rally his voters around if the economy craps between now and the election. Climate change, and how nothing else will matter if we don’t do something to solve that — but also, how even that doesn’t matter very much. The fact that reading is dying, and there’s nothing that can be done to save it; our best hope is that something else will take its place, and that the new thing will be as powerful and useful as reading is.

But I can’t write about any of that. I don’t have time to formulate the good thoughts and put them down on the page. I would have written it last night, but I was grading, because I’ve been procrastinating. Because I’ve been looking for a new rental. And also been very stressed over it and not sleeping well and so therefore napping during the day and being very tired, as well.

These are all excuses.

I want to write about what matters, but I’m not really sure what does. Love seems the best answer.

I want to write about the opening line of Highly Suspect’s song Serotonia: “I wish that everyone that I knew was dead/Just so I’d never have to pick up the phone.” That is a brilliant line: I can’t think of anything that could be so self-consciously insightful and idiotic at the same time.

I wrote before about how writer’s block is really about this: when you have too many ideas, and simply can’t choose between them, so they all clamor for attention, all at once, and you can’t pick one out of the cacophony to focus on.

Have I done the right thing here? Bibbling on about this without accomplishing anything useful? This way I give you something to read, maybe some insight into my thoughts; maybe that’s useful. Maybe this is a waste of time. Is it worth it to keep the streak going? I’m up to 73 days in a row, I think; WordPress is very impressed by me. I’ve been thinking that I should try for a solid year of daily blogs, which sounds great, but if too many of them are going to be like this, maybe I should let it go. I figured the constant deadline would give me impetus to write, a way to break through logjams like this and come to a decision; normally it does, but today, not. So this is my compromise: it’s a post, but it’s not a good post.

It’s a Monday post.

I’ll try to write something better for tomorrow.