I wanted desprately to write from the minute I got up until about noon. This urge was such that, given I had a computer, it seemed like I could sit down and write three chapters of a novel without going on the internet to lolligag once.

Naturally, as with all things, I'm quite fickle. The desire was dead by noon, I got home to Mr. Computer at four. So, to put it bluntly: if I ever want to write a novel (or even a short story at this rate) I'm screwed. My motivation comes at inopprotune hours. Curse you, brain.

It's managed to get ungodly cold outside. I pulled my portable heater out of storage, and am now attempting to feel my feet. Simultaniously, I'm giving myself a crash course in pre-WWI Europe, as there's a huge quiz tomorrow. This actually marks the first time I'll have studied for a history test in about seven-odd years. Studying is not something I do. I'm just trying today because I'd like to get a somewhat good grade on said quiz.

All the same, though, I think this "studying" will cease at any moment. I now remember what the Dreyfus affair is, I'm sure I need to know nothing else. Go go slackin' power!

The movie actually was no longer there. Disappointment. We did go to Hastings--where a bin of 99-cent CDs provided some hardcore entertainment, as well as the wise purchase of a Village People CD--and then to Denny's, but I would have liked to see the movie... Bleah.

More later, maybe.