"I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled."

Ughsdhfkjas.

I want to eat but my stomach hurts when I eat... genuinely confused and not pleased. I don't want to be sick. I don't like being sick.
I think my car hates me. Can't find where the rain is getting in and now there's a musty odor lingering about the back seats.

This is a whingey post to balance out the pointlessly happy one of last week.

I have a number of necessary but dull/unpleasant errands to run tomorrow. And overdue DVDs to return. And overdue library books to return.

And I just read over my novel-in-progress and I hate it. Though right now is probably a bad time objectively examine anything.

I get grumpy when I'm hungry, can you tell? *sobs*

"Freddie experienced the sort of abysmal soul-sadness which afflicts one of Tolstoy's Russian peasants when, after putting in a heavy day's work strangling his father, beating his wife, and dropping the baby into the city's reservoir, he turns to the cupboards, only to find the vodka bottle empty."

— P.G. Wodehouse