It's really difficult, frankly. It's like when you aren't wearing glasses when you need them a whole lot, and you have been drinking whiskey all night on an empty stomach, so everything is just this woozy blur and words come really slowly. Your wpm is unusually slow and you stumble of the spelling of words like "of." Or is it "ov"? I don't really know.
And while you're on an illiterate tilt-a-whirl the only thing that you can seem to hear or make out of your surroundings, are reruns of unbelievably bad and corny television shows. You know the one's with freeze-frames at the end, and where the characters started out as 9th graders and now they are like, married, and have grandkids?
And I'm neither hungry, nor full, yet food sounds great. And I absolutely refuse to look nice.
What's funnier is that, like the blog I made allusion to, there was no breakup, no nothing. All imaginary.
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath…
Oh Hamlet. Oh yeah, one more thing. I sigh a lot more and make indescribable, rather, un-spellable, huffing noises.
