This is absurd.

It's eleven o'clock on Sunday night, I have a 4000-word essay due tomorrow (at five, but really at eleven since I have to go to work in the afternoon), and I've really progressed no further on it than I had on Friday, when I abstained from going to the work drinks in honour of three birthdays including mine in favour of working on the damn essay.

This is not like me -- or at least not very like me. It's like me, exaggerated and blown out of all proportion.

My usual practice is to write very little, read a great deal and let things stew over in my head. During that time, I'll do anything that keeps my hands busy and my mind free -- bake, vacuum, knit, garden. Towards the end I'll sit down in my clean house and write the essay in one sitting.

It works for me, although I know it doesn't work for others. This time around, I'm getting a feeling for why it is that that process doesn't work for others. My house looks like a bomb hit, and my essay is causing me to want to slit my wrists. I think it's related to daylight savingses (which fucks me up every year for about a week, and which was exacerbated this time around by some dumb blokes across the road having a loud party) and chronic sleep deprivation. This time of year sucks.