Hypertext Or Hyper-perplexed?

I know that in order to be considered hip and innovative I should love hyperlink studded text, but I think it's time to come out of the closet and admit the truth: I am a closet linearity fan! You see, to me, the world has always been a hyperlinked place, with one thought triggering another related but different thought, which in turn, triggers yet another related but different thought. If my neurons have a motto it must be something like, "So much stimuli, so little time." I can't even write straight, when I start one story or essay it always splinters into four or five new ones. In short, my life is one big, run-on, hyperlink-studded, sentence. Let's say I decide to clean the house, do I start in one room and methodically move through my abode? No, I start in every room at once, creating meaningful piles and establishing symbolic relationships between my scattered belongings. (There ought to be a defrag program for households.) This little pile approach works fine until I see something like the skirt I once wore to the beach wadded up on the floor and I think, hmmm, I should write about that three-legged dog I saw chasing waves when I was twelve years old and heard of oil spills for the first time, so I walk into the other room, bring up Notepad (my word processor of choice; there's something humbling about having your literary masterpieces look like readme.txt) and begin tapping a few impressions of the dog. About then, my husband will ask something like, "Uh, did you know that the bathtub is overflowing?" to which I mutter something unintelligible, run to the bathroom and... just as I'm dipping my toes in the water, I remember, Oh yeah, I was cleaning the house. So the next thing you know, I am scrubbing the sink in the nude. That is, until a gurgling noise reminds me that I have yet to turn off the tub. Heck, I'm already naked, so I may as well hop in. Meanwhile, as I'm sinking into the delicious suds, I hear Jef call from the other room, "Is there any reason to have the stove on high?" I inherited a lot of nice things from my dad, but organizational skills were not one of them. (See, this should be a separate essay accessed perhaps by linking the words "organizational skills" in the previous sentence, but noooooo, I'm gonna leave it in here, just to make my point! In fact, this whole parenthetical comment is a bit distracting from the flow of my original sentence, isn't it? Come on and bloody admit it!) Just how organized is my father? This is a man, who transformed old milk cartons into neat storage units all labeled with headings like, "two inch bolts" or "small washers". Like me, he picks up odd bits and pieces while out walking and puts them in his pocket. Unlike me, he then archives his treasures. True Story: In high school autoshop, my boyfriend was reconstructing a model T engine (or something like that, that's the only old car name I can think of). Anyway, he needed some obscure do-hickey that they don't make anymore. "Aaaah," said my father, "I'll be right back." He returned a few minutes later with the desired auto part (which he'd found along the roadside decades earlier) having, of course, retrieved it easily thanks to those well-labelled milk cartons... So one of the things I find relaxing about curling up with a book or watching a movie is that it takes my mind on a lovely and oh-so-linear ride from point a to point b. How serene, how different, how pleasant. Am I alone in this? Am I the only one who takes guilty pleasure in admiring the organizers they sell in stationery stores? Taking them from the shelf one by one, toying with them admiringly while eagerly fantasizing about having a tidy, organized life. No wonder I had a crush on Spock when I was a kid. Enough said, I think I'll go make dinner, fix those broken earrings, surf the net, make a midi file, play the clarinet, answer my e- mail and trim my toenails - all at once, of course.