backwards planning to achieve my ideals?

It’s currently 11:37 PM. I’m sitting in bed in leggings and a green fleece zip-up, the one from Old Navy I purchased who-knows-how-many years ago because it looked and felt (and promised to smell) like skiing. There is a stain on the left sleeve where a piece of ceramic slurry from a March bronze cast landed and embedded.
Moot point.
My bed is currently suffering a coup d'état by swells of clothes I intended to iron, faintly emitting that self-satisfied odor of the recently laundered; a spiraled web of cords and pieces of electronic equipment (cell phone? video cam? slr? school lap top? personal lap top? stop listing, please?); and a large bowl of rice smothered in black bean sauce, better known to the culturally nuanced as ja jang myun*. I’m supposed to be a) asleep, or at least b) working tirelessly toward preparing for this week’s slough of lessons, but instead I accomplished absolutely nothing today. Actually, scratch that - I picked up a Jason Brown friend, drove to the middle of a Connecticut laden with leaves in metamorphosis, wandered about a farm regarding draft horses, antiquated weaving/cooking/plowing equipment, and contemplated the pungent nature of nostalgia. I watched the rain pour across a sunny, 70 degree sky and trace a line of refracted rainbow lights into the various parking lots of Suburbia. I consumed the pages of my newest issue of artforum in a drunken delirium, took exactly three naps, then awoke to rearrange the shirts in my second dresser drawer in piles of warms, cools, and whites.
Regardless, something must be done.