Must

So here I am again.  I don't want to write.  But I'm making myself do it anyway, because that's the agreement I came to with myself so that I would actually do something.  As a result, here I am, writing.  Even though I have absolutely nothing to say and absolutely no desire to say anything at all, I'm still sitting here, pouring out cliche words into poorly organized sentences to fill up space.

I want to be a month from here right now.  I want the next month to just pass before my eyes in a moment and be done with already, completely gone.  I wouldn't mind it as memories, but I certainly don't want to go through it, not right now.  I'm in the wrong mood for any of this.  But good god what would I be if that wasn't the case?  It's all making me twitchy and exhausted and miserable (as if I wasn't enough of those already).

And I feel bad.  Not in the guilty sense but in the opposite-of-good sense.  I feel mildly sick, bitterly depressed, and horribly not looking forward to the next month.  I'm tired.  I don't want to deal with this right now or ever, really.  I know I've been writing pretty much the same thing for the past week (probably a bit more, actually), but I don't care right now.  It is what it is, and I don't give enough of a damn to change it.  That realization (that I've only had about a hundred times a day lately) is my cue to shut up.  I'll do that now.