The chord of early August

There hasn't been much variation in the past 10 days, and even less since Sunday. At-desk-with-leg-elevated isn't a bad position as far as aiding with healing, but it's quite poor for typing, so tonight I'm taking full advantage of having a laptop and lounging on the bed.

I really wish I had something new and different and deeper to write. A sidenote of that is probably wishing my life had more variation. Even though I realize there's not much new, I still want to take the time and delve into one of those long, rambling, introspective posts that take more than an hour to write. Two arguments against that are Reagan curling up next to me for sleep, and the fact that I'd rather be watching the last 3 episodes of Dexter, Season 2.

My superego wants to write, my id's asking for TV. The ego's leaning towards the writing as the speed with which I tore through episodes 2-9 of Dexter probably isn't healthy. The id argues that we've begun the endgame of the story arc, not caring that if I watch more now there will be less to escape to tomorrow.

I feel boring. And frustrated. Very frustrated.