Eugh. Life.

Trying to write poetry on the third floor of the McPherson library is the single most profoundly depressing thing I've done all year.

I'm starting to get antsy about this writer's block and the lack of work I've accomplished as of late. This does not mean, by any stretch of the imagination, that more work will get accomplished in the near future. What it actually means is that absolutely no work will get accomplished until I calm down enough to stop thinking about fifty-seven things at once. Cue me falling deathly ill on the count of nine and a half (read: by tomorrow morning).

The only forseeable benefit of getting sick now is that the hallucinations might make for some interesting imagery. Otherwise, I have nothing. Except, maybe, that it might get me out of having to celebrate my birthday, which I'm kind of dreading.