We all find ways of procrastinating. For some, it involves completing every single menial chore you’ve been avoiding for weeks, for others it involves engaging in completely useless activities that you, despite knowing they’re a waste of time, throw yourself whole-heartedly into. It will come as no surprise that I am in this latter cohort.

My procrastination is not productive, it is pink. My procrastination is an artfully tuned form of escapism. My procrastination involves making pom-poms.

There is something rawly spiritual about turning threads of wool into soft, spherical dreams. The process of winding thread around a piece of plastic brings me an unattainable sense of peace. It is comparable only to the feeling of closing all your browser tabs after submitting an essay, and taking your bra off before face-planting your bed at the end of a long day.

Clearly, me writing this small essay is also a form of procrastination. But typing this into my computer, with a pile of pink pom-poms next to me, is somehow, miraculously, keeping me sane.