Sobriquet 42.5

I'm glad I've got this Sunday behind me. It was one of those days where I wake up, realize that I don't really want to write, go back to sleep, wake up, realize that I don't really want to write, go back to sleep . . . you get the picture.

Once I did get myself up and out of bed, though, I managed to sit myself down in front of the computer, open up all the word processing files I'd need to refer to, and stare at the screen, groaning to myself about how I didn't wanna write. Then I got some food, saw what a nice day it was to walk outside, went back inside, ate, found that I still couldn't get writing, played with my cat, sat back down, put my head on my folded arms, groaned some more, sat up, and started surfing the internet.

That is to say I did not get started writing until much later than I had hoped.

But I did get a good chunk of writing done. I still don't like what I've been writing, finding fault everywhere, but I pushed through the vexation, forced myself to finish the train of thought before quitting for the night, and found the idea of visiting a Wal*Mart really, really late really, really enticing.

Seriously, though, today was one of the rougher days I've had.

I'm glad it's over. Not in the sense that I particularly enjoy being a day closer to death, but I think you probably get my meaning.

For tomorrow: Read an article on Disgrace or, as will more than likely be the case, start reading Foe.