They call them deadlines for a reason.

I occasionally wonder if choosing to pursue being a writer is a bad choice for me.

It isn’t the work, because I love the work. It isn’t that I wake up in the mornings wanting to be an investment banker or a train conductor or a traveling salesman instead.

It’s the way I seem cursed where deadlines are concerned.

Give me something important. Put me on a schedule. Tell me you want a set of essays or a short story or a bit of poetry. Ask me to officiate at your wedding. Something will go wrong.

Poisoned by environmental hazards? Check. Mom has a heart attack? Check. Major household emergency? Check. Family/Friend/Relationship insanity? Check. Salmonella in the peanut butter? Double-check, and oh gods never again.

Is tomorrow a big deadline? You betcha.

Is the world on fire today? You betcha.

*facepalm*

Edit to add: but this comic just made everything better.