My girlfriend knows I am having a rough time and she cooked me pure comfort food to help me through it. She does a simulated fried chicken with cutlets pan fried and it is delicious. It went with mashed potatoes, corn and gravy. She’s a genius. She should be writing a dissertation about how to be the best girlfriend in the world. 

It all left me feeling guilty for being such a mope and determined to turn things around. I took stock on my calendar after dinner and realized how badly things are piling up. Am feeling mid-to-severe panic, but I am telling myself this is not an excuse to spiral into bed and deny it is happening. Or is it? 

This is how my mind works and why I am destined to destroy myself. I was on campus this morning, actually making a little bit of progress (I had written 400 words.) Instead of pushing forward, it occurred to me that it would be a great idea if I got up, drove home, and continued working there. 

Of course, my apartment is a disaster. My home office is a hole with no windows and is full of boxes and books and general oppressiveness. Somehow while I was on campus the image of my house was warm, cozy and possibly highlighted by nice candles or inspiring music. None of this is real. 

Then I ate a disgusting lunch made up of whatever leftover lettuce I had combined with a can of horribly flavoured tuna: hot pepper and garlic. Last time I ate it it made me smell awful the next time I exercised as the disgusting flavours drained from my pores. I don’t know why I revisited this brutal meal. 

And now I have wasted an hour and wish I was back on campus where it was at least bright and not full of dirty laundry.