I've spent the days trying to write and most doing housework, instead, because cleaning house when I should be writing is more productive than doing nothing at all when I ought to be writing. The dust in my room was, in places, so deep it had formed dunes. Spooky got a new vacuum cleaner. The old one was all but useless. Cleaning my office, I found an envelope on which I'd written the following: "The maintenance guy was blasting some rap version of the oompa-loompa song." No date.
I've been watching a lot of television. We watched five seasons of Shameless in about two weeks. Brilliant, marvelous television. I'm talking about the American version. We suffered through the first episode of the original British series, and it was just short of unwatchable. No, I take that back. I was very much unwatchable. We're catching up on Gotham now, which I like quite a lot, especially Robin Lord Taylor's Penguin. There's The Walking Dead, too. This season is, to my mind, the most artful and tense yet. Last night, we watched Velvet Goldmine for the first time in many years.
I really have no more time to waste. Ever. As it stands, I suspect – and this is not hyperbole – that I'm about a year behind.
I'm not well.
No, it really is that bad.