The art of not paying attention

I’m beginning to feel as though not-paying attention is a skill. Let me rephrase that, constructively not-paying attention (if there's such a way) while in a meeting with 8 of your “co-workers” (I use the term loosely) is a skill. Every Wednesday I have the insufferable pleasure (akin to the feeling of a catheter) of attending a meeting where we discuss the finer points of public relations. I’ve long thought “maybe I can gauge my arties with my numb fingernails and get outta this” but then realize they would probably only continue the meeting, speculating as to who was going to write my obituary. And none of those fucks are writing my obituary. That’s saved for the library of congress (if ya catch my drift). One such meeting, I showed up noticeably sick. Now, I didn’t know I was sick; I merely thought I was having a moment of weakness. (side note: the males in my family believe that sickness equals weakness, pain equals weakness, and weakness in both cases cripples confidence) So as I’m struggling to so much as pick my head off the desk, I begin to search keywords that keep coming into my head. At one point, as I’m wedged between two of my “co-workers” (again, with that word) and I’m searching Depression and side effects/tale tall signs. Pretty sure that was the last time anyone ever sat next to me at one of these meetings. And by pretty sure, I think most of them are shocked they haven’t found me hanging in the storage closet yet. More so, the skill is not caring what people think of you as you scroll the blogs of choice and give little effort except for my (insert- glowing, wonderful, beautiful) presence. A skill that I have not only mastered, I'm a sensei. Now back to today’s meeting. I say my piece as to what I can remember is happening in the Athletics department, appease the writers (see: people picked on by jocks) by making a joke about the particularly difficult year we’ve been having in the win-loss columns (“an aversion to winning”) and while suppressing the urge to scream out "NERDS!!!", I bury my head in the glorious world wide web.
2:02- Check Deadspin
2:03- Check Espn.com
2:03.33- check deadspin (maybe they updated it)
2:04- Check Fantasy Baseball team
2:06- Ponder what my starting outfield should be (Jason Heyward you are all that is man!)
2:08- Check Google News
2:09- Check Facebook
2:11-Check Espn (come’on breaking news!)
2:13- No such luck, I read about Big Ben
2:15- I lift my head up for air when I hear someone rumor the meeting being adjourned. Bitch was lying
2:16- Repeat cycle
Now this meeting went until 2:37. (this is how you know I was bored) I checked deadspin and espn a combined 12 times, that I can remember. I swear that when browsing the internet my brain completely turns to mush. All I can do is sit like an autonomous droid and click on link, type in new address, scroll down, repeat..click on link, type in new address, scroll down, repeat…click on link, type in new address, scroll down, repeat. Shit, I’m doing it again…The entire group continues to drone on and on, sounding something like Charlie Brown’s teacher. Except I wish the words were really that incoherent. My problem becomes that I can still make out the words, I just don’t have a fuckin clue as to what they’re saying or talking about (note to self: this happens when you nevvver pay attention) Instead they just sound like people worrying to fucking much about mundane details that don’t have a worldly effect. Not that I have room to talk. I’ve literally became so consumed by my desire to talk nothing but sports that I’m either a) a misdiagnosed Asperger’s suffer, b) that damn locked in, c) really hate human interaction. And we all know sports talk has no worldly effect, and thus I find my place at this meeting, a massive jock in a world I know nothing about (public relations), hoping that the meeting will end and I can go back to the comfort of my own, secluded, world.