I have no idea why. I know what I'm writing about; I know what I want to say - it's just that somehow the words aren't coming quickly enough for me, and I'm feeling woefully frustrated. Also the impendingness of Whitby isn't helping, because my head is telling me "You want to have this section finished before you go", and that's making me feel worse about my sluggishness.
However, what I am writing is damn good. I don't generally feel that way about what I write; usually, my opinion is somewhere between "Well, it's not so bad" and "Ye gods, this is piss-poor." Tonight's stuff and the minor polishings of the earlier material (and they were exceedingly minor) are damn good. Go me.
I ate some more soup tonight. I have to eat, or the drugs really wreck me. Jus did a really lovely sausage casserole, to judge by the small taste I had of it, but I had to cry off because something said "you eat that, and you'll regret it." So I deferred eating it, and now I'm hungry again, but that little voice is still warning me off it. I feel that I'd actually like to eat scrambled eggs (a sure sign I'm feeling feeble, because to me that's real comfort food), but then if I did I'd feel guilty that I haven't eaten the casserole... *sigh*, stupid, stupid. Jus would understand. He's so good to me, sometimes I could cry from sheer happiness.