Shrink

I often wonder just what a shrink would really make of me, always assuming that I'd actually talk to one and not just sit in silence like I did the last time I went for therappeeeeee. I make all these lists of things to do, I make real, actual, lines-on-paper lists, and other, mnemonic ones in my head. And then instead of actually doing stuff on those lists (which of course just get longer and longer), I sit and read almost all of a Michael Crichton book ("Next", if you're wondering) in one sitting. I was bone-achingly exhausted (must be all that not-doing-stuff) at 9pm, and now it's almost 2am and of course I'm still up, with my eyes wedged open. But I finished the book. It was OK, nothing great, but I'm so skint right now I can't afford to buy new airport books, and I'm too bone-idle to re-register at the library, so I have to read what's at hand.
But oh, I'm so tired, and I'll feel even worse tomorrow, especially when I have to get up at 8.15 to get the girls ready for school.
Holy shit, how am I ever going to get out of this cycle?
I reckon a shrink would have a field day.