Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.
eliade

ugh.

The summer is making its upcoming debut felt with all the subtlety of a Hollywood diva. Big swollen sun today, big big sun. Bright, with brilliant blue sky and fluffy white clouds. It's grotesque. My feeling of horror increases in conjunction with the sudden need for Midol: heat, intestinal discomfort, tiredness. I came back in from a trip to the supermarket with a sense of great relief, a mole scurrying into its burrow.

Under the circumstances--given the monstrously clement weather--my plan to make pot-pie seems misguided, perhaps even insane. Eh.

Finished watching Darkness Falls. Wait until it's a cheaper rental if you need to see Emma, okay? That's all I'm saying.

I've been harping on this theme, but I'll say it again: going from the lucid flow of writing Subtleties back to the more familiar experience of sitting in front of Word and staring at the blinking cursor, fingers poised, having managed to set nothing but the opening quotation marks of some as yet unknown dialogue to the page--sucks ass.

Pot pie, save me.


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