Me and multitasking have an unholy relationship.
Late at night, multitasking enters into my room through some unknown window, dark wings aflutter. It hovers at the foot of my bed and waits. When I open my eyes, it takes semi-human form and speaks.
It promises full articles and a clean house and well rounded children and food put up for the winter and executable marketing strategy and a balanced budget and improved relationships with people old and new.
"Yeeew cahn ave it ahll," it says, in its creepy Transylvanian accent. It comes closer. Closer. Its cape begins to engulf me, surround me, I can’t breathe … In an instant, it sucks the energy right out of me, and instead of one thing, I have a bunch of nothings. It laughs, returns to bat form, and flies away.
It's time I admit it. Take away my woman card: I can't do multitasking. I’m tracking down that window and putting up a screen, I’m done with it. And if it tries to come back to me, making promises it can't keep, I’m going all Bugs Bunny on it.
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