How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on’t! O fie! ’tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely.
~ William Shakespeare, Hamlet, I, ii
I woke this morning feeling perfectly fine but at the same time not quite quite, so I took a little white pill. Because the label says not to drive a car or operate heavy machinery, David drove me downtown to BookPeople for my biweekly critique group meeting. For the next two hours, I took part in a lively discussion about the craft of writing.
After the meeting, I fired up my trusty Chromebook and wrote three paragraphs of my Day P post.
Then my eyelids began to droop. I had a definite case of the drowsies.
Lest I fall asleep in CoffeePeople, I called David. He came and escorted me to the car, drove me home, steered me to the house, and poured me into my chair.
Since that time, I’ve felt, in turn, apathetic, detached, draggy, droopy, lethargic, impassive, passive, pedestrian, plodding, and what Hamlet said.
I couldn’t care less and I could care less.
I feel fine.
It’s just that, my dear, I don’t give a damn.
Anyway, I’m dismissing all thought of finishing my original Day P post (“P Is for Pat Boone”) and submitting this instead. Then I turn my face to the future.
After all, tomorrow is another day