I never have time to do anything I want to do, and yet I seem to be able to sit here vegetating for hours on end. I'm surprisingly cold. I rarely get cold, and it's not really cold at all -- mid 70's is not "cold."
I'm hoping that forcing myself to write a little something -- anything -- every day will lead me back to actually writing something useful; perhaps even fiction (woo). At the moment, I'm not holding out high hopes. My brain appears to be on hold somewhere.
I got rid of cable a while back (more than a year now, I'm sure -- maybe even longer), and I really, really want to have an antenna installed -- one on the roof, like in the old days. This inside one sucks.