Writing, or lack thereof

I've now spent an entire morning procrastinating on my writing. Every night, I beat myself up and promise I'll do it first thing in the morning, rather than wait until the afternoon when it is so easy to get called away (to do work for the job that I'm actually hired for--the one that keeps chained to my desk). I think I need therapy to figure out why I am sabotaging myself. What is wrong with me? It's not like I have anything better to do. Instead, I spent the morning doing grocery lists and sign up sheets for my son's school play performance (I am in charge of refreshments). Why am I able to jump on that bandwagon and organize up a storm, when it is so mundane.

Writing actually produces a product I am proud of and one that could potentially get me out of here. Or even if it didn't, it would make me feel like I am more than an office drone, like I have a secret double life or something.

I am sick. That is the only explanation. Or maybe somewhere, someone is sticking pins in a voodoo doll with a lock of my hair stuck to it. Maybe I do need a life coach. That is such a weird idea. Aren't your parents life coaches? And look how annoying that gets.