Mike wanted to post the Tempranillo review, but couldn’t bring himself to edit. He also wanted to work on some spoken word. No propulsion. He was pinned down by an absence of puissance. Papers to grade, no way was he ever going to touch those tonight. The TV, boring, deathly. Wine, “Not tonight,” he thought.
He needed decent sleep tonight. The nap he took a few hours ago was probably hindering any fecundity. The blog, not interesting him, not now. He opened his Composition book, clicked the pen.
Stomach still hurts from that burrito. Never going there again. Never want to eat again.
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