I Wonder If Shakespeare Had These Problems...

I just can't seem to write. As in, take the story I've written by hand and work on the second draft. I still really like it, and it's fun, and I have the next few chapters mapped out, but I can't write it.My notebook is sitting here, pages open and waiting to be typed up and made good, and instead I'm vacantly surfing LibraryThing (which I may need a break from for a few days, because I have too much fun on it), and updating my Amazon wishlist, even though I'm not getting an presents this year.I got to see my friend Kaje, which was both awesome and awful, because it just reminds me how much I miss her, and how lonely and BORING life is here in New Jersey.Tomorrow I'm going to call the mall and see if they're hiring for seasonal positions. If they don't call me for substitute work, that is. As for the rest of Sunday, i think I'm going to curl up with Borges, and not even pretend to write. Why sully myself further?I want to go shopping. A lot. I also kind of want to set a certain close relative on fire, because he's being a miserable prat, but that's another story. One that would involve the police, and possibly FOX News. And barbecue.I may also reorganize my books. That means shifting the piles around, in an order that only I can comprehend, and that someone will inevitably fuck up because NOBODY understands the complex inner-workings of the rat maze that is my mind.Rambling is bad. I will stop immediately.- LV

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