I feel so devoid of inspiration these days. Insufferable boredom plagues my every waking moment and I know that to be the chief source of this aridity of the imagination. I am beginning to have a painful epiphany: that all of my art is, to put it vulgarly, bitching about life. You would think this would be the perfect time for me to spiritedly pursue all the artistic endeavors I have been complaining work has forced me to sacrifice, yet the opposite is true: without the daily repetitive grind of work, I am suddenly devoid of the impetus to write or paint. Work, for all its unpleasantness, was never at fault in the first place for this draught. It has simply been a case of pure sloth, flawless, unpolluted laziness at its crystal fineness. I may hate the mindless administrative duties and despise the harebrained bureaucracies at work, but I have only myself to blame for allowing my life to become a pool of stagnant water. One entire month away from work and what do I have to show for it? A primed canvas with a few "expressionistic" brushstrokes and ten books read and not a paragraph of the promised debut novel delivered. Oh isn't it wonderful how my work blossoms by itself while I sleep my afternoons away and grow fat on diet coke and Mars bars... For Christ's hallowed and sanctified sake, get off your fat ass and DO SOMETHING. PLEASE!