(no subject)

I'm predictably obtuse when it comes to my own health: usually I'm only clued in to the fact that I'm sick when I doze off at 8:30pm and then sleep for twelve hours. Case in point, last night.

I did manage to have more fragments of bizarre dreams than I've had all year. I believe at one point Nicole Kidman was playing a steampunk private detective, who alighted Mary-Poppins-style on the rubble of the Golden Gate Bridge with her giant pet seal, Laurence, and watched frostily as someone's corpse slid into the water. I don't -- yeah. I don't know.

Perhaps as a result of producing nonsense for me all night, my creative subconscious has been kicked into overdrive, and all I want to do today is write. I may allow this to happen once I've done my grocery shopping and piles of uni work and spent my coffee money on doing the laundry (SOB).

Though basically, I'll be pleased with myself if I manage to keep away from fanfiction; spurred by flisty mentions of HBP, I keep doing things like opening Corridors of Power with the idle thought of hmm, I wonder if this is still my favourite fanfic of all time? and four hours later blinking confusedly and wondering where the time went. (A: Yep. Still my favourite.)

Must not open Maya's stories. Must not. Must not.

I really love this icon

GODDDD WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY BRAIN. I have been trying to force it to think about my Honours project for two weeks and it keeps sliding sideways or chucking hissies or fixating on seriously unnecessary things like poetry or my clinical examination textbook.

And now, for further slipperiness, I can't even make it accept the consolation prize of thinking about one of my stupid fucking WIPs that I want so desperately to be done, finished, out of my hair and my mind and my wavering fingertips.

What does it want to think about?

A sequel to this, apparently.

I. GIVE. UP.

Anyone who was still deluding themselves that I have even the smallest fraction of mental discipline: I'm sorry.