Focus Splitting

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I attended a professional development meeting in February that really stuck with me. Well, no, I guess it didn’t in its entirety, but the energy/focus portion of it did. I tend to be the one on the left.

I have all these little goals, little projects, things that feel so very important that I need to do.

Really, there are only two things that I need to worry about immediately. I need to make extra money (to pay for heating during winter) and I need to take better care of myself.

Then I start overthinking. I need to meal plan. I have to calculate every calorie. I need to stop drinking soda. I need to this, I need to that.

And then when the intention was to be the arrow on the right, I’m the blob on the left again.

The reality is that these things are actually fairly simple. It’s me that over-complicates them.

I run a little business (in addition to my full-time job) where I sell hand-made cosplay items. I get lots and lots of requests, but I’m always so busy with something else that I can’t take on the extra work. What do I do to remedy this?

Stop thinking. Stop obsessing. Just do things.

I have a gym membership. Go to the gym. Do gym things. Boom.

I have time on weekends to work on items (and not play candy crush for 6 hours). Work on the things. Ship them. Boom.

It’s so easy, but my stupid brain complicates the crap out of everything.

Goal 1: Train and run a 5k on October 29.

Goal 2: Save $1000 for firewood/electricity over the winter.

Okay.

Obviously I need to stop living on sugar. So stop. Done.

 

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The Golden Pompous

Gabriel, my stepbrother (once removed…?), got a live chicken from school. They just give those out. Hey kid, want a chicken?

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Our parents built a little coop for Goldie, and then we started acquiring various other chickens and ducks. As I write this, I keep backspacing. Why did we have all these farm animals? I have no explanation.

Goldie grew to be a massive cock, in every sense of the word.

As roosters go, he was a prime specimen. Nearly my height with huge breasts, golden eyes, a reddish-orange comb and long, luxurious sickle feathers. He knew he was beautiful and would strut around, asserting is dominance.

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After feeding Goldie one day, Gabriel came inside rather upset. “I don’t like when Goldie knocks me down and jumps up and down on my back.” he said.

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Yeah, dude. That sucks.

I was taller than Gabriel (at that point in time – didn’t last long) so Mom asked me to go round up the chickens and put them in the coop. My friend Michael came to help.

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(I got sick of drawing chickens.)

I tried ushering Goldie towards the coop.

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He didn’t like that.

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I soon realized I had been led into a trap. There were spiky sticks and jagged rocks all around me. It was a woodland Thunderdome.

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I backed away slowly, abandoning the mission my mother had assigned me. Goldie lunged at me. He was out for blood.

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I could hear Michael’s raucous laughter over the sound of my fearful screams. Admittedly, I was laughing too.

I narrowly escaped certain death. Goldie went to live on a farm.

EDIT: My parents read this and said Goldie didn’t actually go live on a farm. He died heroically protecting the rest of the flock from a fox.

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