Signs you might have a problem: you just paid four bucks for a wireless connection at a cafe to check email and livejournal.
Currently I'm the last writer standing at Write Club. Eric just fled, and I would too, but again, just paid four bucks for two hours of wireless, so I feel I should sit here and dork around online to get the most out of my money.
Besides, there are disgustingly rich chocolate cupcakes here. And writing is actually happening! Words have actually survived the treacherous trip from my brain through the keyboard to the screen. Four hundred or so words weren't so lucky, alas, but they were weak and would have held back the rest. It was a sacrifice for the greater good, and they did not die in vain.
Okay, I should probably lay off the disgustingly rich chocolate cupcakes.
You know when you write something, and you think, "Damn, that's good." And then you look at it a week or two later, and you can't hit delete fast enough?
Yeah.
Writing is just fucking irritating sometimes.
After four days in a row of being unable to stand up straight for fifteen or twenty seconds after getting up off the couch, I've started doing yoga in the mornings. I'm not a coordinated or balance-enabled person when I'm fully conscious. And I am so not a morning person. But at least my back and hip won't hurt when I inevitably concuss myself by falling on my head during a downward dog pose.