i don't want to write today. today, i feel stymied and brittle and jealous and weak and mean. but a practice is a practice, right? today i felt like neruda's ode to laziness; i wouldn't get up off the ground. certainly, i went to work, was witty with customers and coworkers, but nothing. i don't want to write today, i hate it, the very words of it, i don't want to think about applications or plan an outing next month or do anything but lie in bed. i want a day off, and it's only monday.