It's one of those days. A combo of hay fever (courtesy of a premature Oklahoma spring), not enough sleep, and not enough drugs has left me feeling like doo-doo. I should have stayed home today. A nap would do me wonders right now. So would some Sudafed.

When I feel bad like this I start to get melancholy. I don't have enough energy to do the things I should be doing, or to focus on the distractions that usually make my days bearable, and so I just sit here and think about how messed up things are. Or more to the point, how messed up I am.

Like, how I'll never be as cool or as smart or as talented as I try to fool people into thinking I am. Or how no matter what I do, no matter how I try to rearrange my schedule, I just can't get it all done. I have one job, and one class, and it's a struggle to find enough time and energy in a single day to handle both. And where does that leave my writing? Nowhere, it would seem.

I can't even remember the last book I read. I used to read all the time. I'd always have a book going. I'd carry one with me everywhere I went, and read it at every opportunity.

And I'm just a single, childless person. Can you imagine if I had a family to keep up with? I can't. I'd like to have one some day, but I've got to learn to get my shit together a lot better than this before that ever happens.

I really need a nap. And some sudafed. And some Ritalin. And quite probably some exercise and fresh air (but not until I get some sudafed).