Unfocused, Still

I've been posting today from the coffee shop that I once believed could serve as my home away from home the way this place used to. It's not quite there. I've finally had to accept the fact that, as counter-intuitive as it would seem moving to I-town, there just isn't a place where I could work like I did in A-town.

It's times like these, like at any other "job," where there's nothing else for it but to just get to fcuking work, unfocused or not.

I did get one thing accomplished. I subbed another tale to the place that just rejected me. That's something, right? One thing. One thing I can point to that, even if I end up jerking off for the rest of the day, I can say I got done.

Please, no comments about how ostensibly hard I'm being on myself. This isn't about being hard on myself or a potential cautionary tale about work/life balance. This is about one of those many instances where the rubber needs to meet the road in order to do what you set out to do.

Because, as the gentleman on the left says, What you're supposed to do is act like a fucking professional.

I think I need to get some reading done. I suspect that's been part of my problem lately: not enough creative input to fuel the creative output.