(no subject)

Fits of productivity are punctuated by laziness and a bizarre kind of angry despair. I don't quite know how to describe it, and I'm reluctant to post any stories that I write while in the throes. So you lot may be SOL.

Still not fit for company, and I should stop pretending that I am.

I don't understand. Erratic, charismatic, operatic, enigmatic. Every time I think I know what's going on, just contradictory enough to make me question my judgment, just bland enough to possibly have no meaning whatsoever. I woke up in my clothes again this morning and I don't know exactly where I am. Confusion and fear lead to anger and anger... well, you know the rest.

Relax. Have a cigar. You're going to go far.