Peeved

am I.

I'm hungry. I have to read a whole freaking (summary of a) long play and another shorter play and do a persuasive essay on drama. Gee, if only the assignment was pertaining to real-life "drama", I could pour my words out and be done before dinner. Or maybe I'll never finish. Nonetheless, it'd be better than writing about two plays that I have no desire whatsoever to read. It's not even for me, which lessens my interest in reading and writing about them.
I spent a whole half an hour on the phone explaining an assignment to a friend. What a good person I am. I was supposed to be practicing piano, too. Geez, I hate how I'm so..."helpful" or whatever to others, but not so much to myself. If that didn't make sense to you, then whatever. Really, I need to allocate my time better. I really, really do. But I never do.

My back hurts again; I'm sleepy.
I want to read, and I want to write. But not the aforementioned plays. I want to read my new book, and I want to actually, physically hold a pen and write in my journal, which I have not visited since...September.
Ugh. I get the feeling I'm evoking a sense of sullenness. Which would be, I suppose, appropriate at this particular moment.

I forgot what I was about to say in a new paragraph.
Now I have no more to say.

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