Ick

Remember how good I felt this morning? Scrap that. And this has nothing to do with alcohol. This is more like a literary criticism hangover combined with a sense of general worthlessness. Today, Eric was at work for over eight hours, and I planned to get things done. Not lots of things, but important things. I'd spend a few hours finishing my lit crit reading, then outline my thesis. I thought I might even have some time to write a page or so.

Nope.

Instead, I fell asleep on the couch several times. The first time, I was desperately tired and needed a nap. But after that, sleep was an escape from what I was reading - and the realization that I wasn't reading it fast enough to keep ahead of the feelings of inadequacy that were relentlessly chasing me. But I paid for my laziness in nightmares: I was building a new house in the country with my boyfriend (Not Eric, but Matthew McConaughey. I can't be held responsible for what I dream.), and a photographer who had been hired to take pictures of the house became obsessed with me. When I wouldn't pose for some bizarre pictures, he tried to kill everyone.

I finally finished my lit crit reading at about 10:30, but now I feel gritty and tired, and I'm not sure I can make myself work anymore. More likely, I'll be seeing the sunrise tomorrow.