So it's 10:00. I'm watching Forgetting Sarah Marshall and drinking a mimosa I made with a bottle of DKNY champagne stolen from the rtbp opening night party. I am on my little red couch, in this apartment that I probably should have vetted a little before committing to it, thinking that I should clean my room.
I have spent more nights like this in this apartment since I moved in than doing anything else. Tonight it's a movie. For the past month I've been alternating between NCIS and The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Last week I discovered the joy that is Supernatural. I haven't written a word of anything that wasn't twitter or this fucking blog post in weeks.
I have absolutely no excuses. The gala is over, and even with The Great Foolishness at work I still have plenty of extra time. I hate that I've been talking about being a writer for fucking ever, I've been talking about losing weight for fucking longer than that, and have done no work towards either. If the Malcolm Gladwell theory of genius is that you need 10,000 hours to be good at something I am a failure at just about everything.
I don't know what the point of this self-indulgent ass post is, but I thought I'd make my triumphant return to blogging a good one. After all, what's the internet for?