It's the morning again, and it's a Sunday. No, I don't go to church, but I am Christian. Personally, I don't think God really gives a rat's ass if I go to be with those hypocrits anyway. Instead of church, I'm cleaning my room. Yep, you heard me, I'm doing menial labor. If my room isn't cleaned up for the rest of the week, then I'm a mess. I need my bed made, research supplies ready and at attention, dressed and shoes on, or I'm not prepared to attack the day, or my writing. Explain to me my idiosyncrisies, because I don't understand them.

I'm tired. I'm tired of rewriting this damned chapter over and over again. I'm tired of giving up in frustration. I'm just so fucking tired. I want to write, it's my dream, but what do you do when your dream begins to border on a nightmare?

Writing and it's impact on my life as of late.
I've been writing again (go me!). The book I'm writing sounds good so far, and I'm approaching the third chapter at a startlingly fast rate. All is good in the world. I am at peace with my imaginary friends whom I call characters. my imaginary friends yell at me when I do not write about them. My imaginary friends are emotionally tortured individuals who need more theropy than I do. Am I still sane?