2002-07-15 - 12:58 a.m.

I had one of those days where I got nothing done.

Ahhhhhhh.

Nice.

Actually, not quite.

Those days where you get nothing done are fine when you're Martha Stewart or Bill Gates.

I need someone, hopefully wearing beige shorts with way too many useful pockets, and ideally with a whistle for a necklace, named Pam or Sal, to plan my weekends for me.

Anyway, slumps suck. Obviously.

We all know that.

But slumps are comfortable. You don't have to do anything.

When you break out of one, a slump, and when you're doing everything the way you're supposed to do everything, it's kinda weird.

You get this flash. This tiny moment.

Go back to the slump, it says.

Nothing has changed.

Take the weekend off and revel in your depression. Roll around in your own sloth, if you have the energy to do so. As long as you do your laundry and show up to work on Monday, you're doing fine. So go ahead and drink that eleventh beer. You can still write.

And it kinda makes sense.

You've been doing things right, and it�s been taxing. You've earned it.

I don�t know how to reply. The angel that usually perches on my right shoulder took the night off.

He asked my conscience to cover for him. That asshat does nothing but whine. His only other primary responsibility is to write in this journal, and he can�t even manage that simple task.