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i'm looking at this white box, and feeling very inadequate.

if i were the type of person who could delete my past writings, i would probably cut up the past month's worth. i can't say that there has been much coherency, flow, even STORY ARC...just a lot of shite ramblings.

i've just been pretty muddled lately, and not in a good creative articulate way, either. one of those moods where you don't know exactly what is causing it or what is wrong, but just BEING pisses you off. but not enough to be able to rant. fidgety, antsy.

so i'm back at this table at an unreasonable hour (not for most, but for some) trying to come up with ten pages on...hamlet, of all things. of course it was due earlier tonight, but, ummmm...old habits die hard.

and that's what i'm doing here, wasting precious energy trying to explain myself TO myself. ughh. what a crock.