I can't remember feeling this unmotivated before. The lethargy, the overwhelming desire to not get up from bed.. That overpowering urge to skip the bus and to head on somewhere except my office cubicle.
I should blame it all on this wonderful London weather we're having. Gray skies, damp, wet, and somewhat mucky -- the hanging promise of misery and tragedy. I love it. This is exactly the type of weather the Bronte's were so fond of writing about. The one thing practically missing is a moor.
Except instead of that, I have a cubicle farm. Sigh.