See, I was talking to
I have also decided to reward myself for writing, on the premis that it will motivate me. I haven't decided on a rewards system yet, but I'll come up with something.
And now, something from Eunoia, by Christian Bok, to motivate me:
Writing is inhibiting. Sighing, I sit, scribbling in ink this pidgin script. I sing with nihilistic witticism, disciplining signs with trifling gimmicks—impish hijinks which highlight stick sigils. Isn't it glib? Isn't it chic? I fit childish insights within rigid limits, writing schtick which might instill priggish misgivings in critics blind with hindsight. I dismiss nit-picking criticism which flirts with philistinism. I bitch; I kibitz—griping while criticizing dimwits, sniping while indicting nitwits, dismissing simplistic thinking, in which philippic wit is still illicit.
(Still have a headache. Fucking devil winds.)