Iambic, Schmiambiac.
I’m supposed to be writing a sonnet. I’ve always had a respect for structured poetry. For me, actually trying to write some is like giving the Tour de France a go after years of cruising the neighborhood bike path with my dad. I actually fancied myself a person who writes? HAH!, sneers the five-foot Petrarch. Write this, bitch!

So that’s where I’ll be today after work. Wish me luck. It’s showdown time.

This and a thousand other things are distracting me, right now. Actually, everything is distracting me from everything else, so that I’m never really present. Which is an added challenge to ever feeling relaxed or even just passably okay. I’m supposed to go to a meditation group today with my roommates, but instead I think I’ll be home, struggling with the mighty iamb.