Tired, crap, sleepy, shit, tired, blergh.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Today is going badly and I apparently have not the wit nor motivation to drag myself out of this... badness. That's a solid example of the type of mush my brain has been producing since about mid-afternoon. Apparently my vocabulary and sentence constructing abilities have taken an unannounced holiday and neglected to tell me, much less bring me along. I can picture them now, urbane sophisticates conversing about matters too complex for me to fathom seeing as to do so I'd need the very attributes which are at this moment sunning themselves poolside, Mai Thai in figurative hand.

I also seem to have misplaced my typing abilities also (also also? Fucking deserters), but that's due to mere motor function and I doubt he'd have the wherewithal to organize a sneaky sojourn without my noticing. As if to illustrate just how absent he is, I had to retype that sentence 3 times. Sojourn became sohourn, for example.

The question, then, is whether to press on or to call it a day when in actuality it's only been an hour and a half. I should hit the tablet rather than retreat to the warmth of my gaming habit, seeing as COD is poison these days. As put by a contemporary, it is now infested with "knife monkeys". It's settled, I'll read 2 more articles then fiddle with the tablet for a spell. Temptation, frustration, so bad it makes me cry. The maddening thing about COD is the occasional burst of exuberant efficiency that results in kills galore and fame forever. This punctuates the constant fuckwittery so popular with about 80% of its user-base. I'm leaping back and forth like a metronomic frog so that'll do for now.