Drinking from a firehose

There's a simple explanation, I don't talk about all the things at which I fail. My house is a mess. If you've seen an episode of Hoarders, you have a pretty good idea. I haven't seen the surface of our kitchen table in a good two years, maybe three. Or four. I have email from dead people in my inbox. Friends who have died as many as eight years ago that I haven't gotten myself to read yet. Not to mention I have more than 8000 messages I keep meaning to read in my main mailbox at home, and an additional 2000+ at work. I don't think I've read a paper book in three years and have been stuck for that long on the three stories I'm actually trying to read on my Kindle. I have probably two dozen Audible books I haven't touched and hundreds of DVDs that are still in their wrappers. The wooden sides of our herb garden have rotted and I suspect nothing but weeds will come up this Spring, not helped in the least by having the entire thing covered with a tarp for the entire time the garage project was underway. From beforehand, actually, as that was where we stashed most of the garden tools. I also can't motivate myself to exercise even though I fear growing even weaker and more awkward. As it is I walk like a toddler, listing from side to side and falling over all too frequently. I've tried telling myself this is my version of a second childhood. The idea makes me laugh but the actual living of it not so much.

Feel better yet?