Tired, grumpy, and miserable. And also happy, because I enjoy feeling bad once in a while. Nothing exists in itself, and I were to flatter myself that I am all over comfortable, and have been so for a long time, then I cannot be said to be comfortable any more.

I did zero hole-drilling this weekend. Yet I can't fight it much longer. Unperturbed drywall, bearing little other than itself, arrogant and red. It heaps me.

Walked 11 miles on Saturday. Then only 4 on Sunday. Sunday was malaisy, broodish, and thinly-lit. The twins came over and got really into Narnia game for the PS3, Prince Caspian I think. They proclaimed it the best game ever, until we all got stuck on this damn river-crossing part. I warned them about movie tie-in games, and now they're experiencing it again.

What now, then?

Feeling a bit closed in. The usual winter melancholy, probably. Or I could be getting sick. I'm so often allergic and so rarely sick, I forget what it feels like to truly need to take time to recuperate. Maybe I should go to bed earlier.

Disorder, perhaps. Generally I'm comfortable in it, only this time I lack the artistic credibility to justify it. A mere slovenly sloth, no suffering creator here. You want the next house over.

I worried sublimation would be a slippery slope.