Meh

So I have work to do, right? Like actual, important stuff. For a big title. I need to work on it. The editor is riding horses in California so I'm the boss this week. Of course, my brain decides to pull a Homer Simpson-esque exit from my skull and I am left with a steady hum of "meeeeeeehhhh" in my cranium. My synapses aren't firing today-- they're mostly clicking like an empty lighter. I want to work. I wish I could tear right through this proofchecking, but it ain't gonna happen.
It was the greatest feeling this morning-- I woke up in my bed, stone cold sober, 45 minutes before the alarm went off in the perfect position. Every limb, every hair on my head was in the most comfortable position it could be. It felt like being held off the floor on a puffy cloud held up by singing cherubs. I was still tired but I was comfortable. Then the alarm went off, calling me away from the song of the angels and I shivered my way into the shower. Damn you, Protestant work ethic! I could have mustered a sick voice, but I hauled my body into work. My spirit is out somewhere pregaming for Cinco de Mayo.
So forgive me for not writing anything intelligent today. I promise I'll get my act together tomorrow. I should rifle through the pages of this book now.