A Sunday morning post - yes or no?

Shall I make my usual Sunday morning post to a sleeping readership? If so, what ought it to be about? I'm sure I had things to say yesterday, but yesterday was a day of such appalling laziness that I couldn't really participate in the internet beyond hitting the refresh button.

Today I know not what to say. My fingers are cold. There was snow this week. There is no snow now. My hands, the state of which has been alluded to in previous posts, are possibly a touch better. They're sort of...armoury, but not, you know, opening up and bleeding on a regular basis. So that's good. I am uncomfortably aware of my own lips. No-one else's are mine to be aware of. What I mean is they are of a different and undesirable texture, but they are not bleeding either. Well done me for my external cohesion beyond the bounds of expectation.

That is the story of my dermatological adventures. I could write about that, but it's neither nice nor particularly interesting. I could say that I had a Welsh cake for breakfast, and a disappointingly weak cup of tea, which I did. Isn't it strange the way Welsh cakes line your mouth with their weird waxy coating? I think they use too much baking powder. I ought perhaps to make my own. I can make a birthday cake later this month, because a relative has a birthday. I'm going to make sachertorte. Or an approximation thereof. The genuine recipe is a bit of a secret.

I think, if I make this post, that the breakfast story has to be the current front runner. I have no writing to tell you of because I've been bad and procrastinationful for all of yesterday. I am currently not writing a short story. Even with all the not writing I've done, it's the longest short story I've ever written, or alternatively not. It has over 6,000 words on the screen and another 4,000 or so in my head. I might cut some of the ones in my head. 10,000 words is pushing it a bit. I should also get back to editing my - hah- my novel. I worry that it's going to look dreadful the more I return to it or I'm going to want to change the entire location and premise and plot or do something that involves lots of work. I want to go to the cinema. I ought to lock myself in and chain myself to the keyboard instead. I want to go to the cinema.

(In the end, I decided not to make this post after all. Signed.)

A Sunday morning post - yes or no?

Shall I make my usual Sunday morning post to a sleeping readership? If so, what ought it to be about? I'm sure I had things to say yesterday, but yesterday was a day of such appalling laziness that I couldn't really participate in the internet beyond hitting the refresh button.

Today I know not what to say. My fingers are cold. There was snow this week. There is no snow now. My hands, the state of which has been alluded to in previous posts, are possibly a touch better. They're sort of...armoury, but not, you know, opening up and bleeding on a regular basis. So that's good. I am uncomfortably aware of my own lips. No-one else's are mine to be aware of. What I mean is they are of a different and undesirable texture, but they are not bleeding either. Well done me for my external cohesion beyond the bounds of expectation.

That is the story of my dermatological adventures. I could write about that, but it's neither nice nor particularly interesting. I could say that I had a Welsh cake for breakfast, and a disappointingly weak cup of tea, which I did. Isn't it strange the way Welsh cakes line your mouth with their weird waxy coating? I think they use too much baking powder. I ought perhaps to make my own. I can make a birthday cake later this month, because a relative has a birthday. I'm going to make sachertorte. Or an approximation thereof. The genuine recipe is a bit of a secret.

I think, if I make this post, that the breakfast story has to be the current front runner. I have no writing to tell you of because I've been bad and procrastinationful for all of yesterday. I am currently not writing a short story. Even with all the not writing I've done, it's the longest short story I've ever written, or alternatively not. It has over 6,000 words on the screen and another 4,000 or so in my head. I might cut some of the ones in my head. 10,000 words is pushing it a bit. I should also get back to editing my - hah- my novel. I worry that it's going to look dreadful the more I return to it or I'm going to want to change the entire location and premise and plot or do something that involves lots of work. I want to go to the cinema. I ought to lock myself in and chain myself to the keyboard instead. I want to go to the cinema.

(In the end, I decided not to make this post after all. Signed.)