the F//B

Today, Thursday seems incredibly depressing. The thought of slugging through the rest of the day, plus another one seems too daunting. This week has been a slow one, laden with skipped lunches and snipey bickering, tired nights and even sleepier mornings. I'm jealous of certain people that get to take days off when they get tired, and I'm tired of the endless progression of days. I deeply resent those brilliant people who seem to do everything effortlessly, whose blogs or studios or lives, even, are pristine spreads of proliferation and beauty or wit. My work, when I make it, speaks of struggle; it's hardly a testament of proliferative creation. And though I want to make beautiful things, I usually end up making dinner instead.