2.23

I didn't fall asleep yet, because I wrote something I hated today. I wrote it while falling asleep at a tiny desk with my fingers sometimesddddddddddddddropping onto the homerow and justssssssssssssstaying there. It didn't make me happy and I didn't like it, but as I read its meanders and holes, I thought to myself: this must be what bad writers feel like when they read what they've written: like the whole time they were fighting a nap that never seemed to take them, and now that they've woken up, their writing is really bad.
I have more sympathy, and less.