You are hereby informed that you can get the hell off my neck for the next 18 hours.
I've got an Alanis Morissette CD here. Don't make me use it.
Normally, I love writing. I can't wait to sit down and put the story on the page. I'm really very productive. So why is it that when I don't *feel* like working, and I don't really need to work because I'm more or less ahead of schedule, and my brain feels dried up and full of twigs, I have this damned guiltmonkey on my back twisting my braids?
*Dances around the house singing Leonard Cohen songs very loudly*