Here is a short story I want to finish.

Here is a spec assignment I should have done earlier this week.

Here I am in the middle, torn.

I have been like this for months—it’s unbearably annoying. Do I want to write stories or a novel? And if a novel, do I want it to be my first love—literary fiction, knowing full well how hard it will be—or YA, more practical while I have these contacts but probably just as hard? Do I want to keep my job or try my hand at another? A gym or yoga, this book or that, that shirt or the other, go out for a walk or stay in? And, most pressing, what do I want for dinner, Thai or Italian, Mexican or Vietnamese?

I am so indecisive these days. And when indecisive it is often easier to make no decision at all, just let the shirts and books and takeout menus fall where they may. But the question of the moment is Saturday afternoon, and where should it take me?

Maybe it will take me to lunch. I’m hungry. So…

What then should I eat?

Oh, please put me out of my misery… it could take me an hour to decide between a sandwich and soup.

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