On the Nineteenth of December…

I failed.

Seriously, everything I attempted ended in failure.  From the grandiose plan to get to the post office to ship this and that, to the goal to clean out a corner of my room, to the fairies I keep trying to make for Lorna and fail… I just truly messed them all up.  I slept, didn’t write much, and then slept some more.

Being sick stinks.  It takes over your life.  It stops your productivity, affects your mental attitude, and in short, makes you miserable.

It’s kind of like sin isn’t it?


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