Watching the Top Chef marathon and ooh, a new episode will be on soon. This is what I am doing now, lazing around on my bed, ignoring that my right leg feels a little too sore, I may have overdone it at the gym, watching TV.
Too tired to write. Too tired to have a brain that operates. I'm going to sleep very well tonight, I hope. Last night my dreams were, uh, odd. Question: why do the boys from Supernatural never show up for sex dreams? Why does my brain insist on these post-modernist storylines that leave me incredibly troubled in the morning?
Shit, I think I'll go ice my leg now and stare off into space. That's productive.