It's friction. Maybe not friction that matters, but friction nonetheless.
So I averaged a B- for 2018. Oof. That F really hurts me, you know?
I can't remember the last time I wrote anything substantive longhand, and I should.
The bends are sharp, the canyons are dark, and we can't see what's up ahead.
Things always go wrong with cooking. And as soon as something goes wrong, your timing goes straight to hell.
That's the beauty of NaNoWriMo: your job is to write.
I feel this vague unease while contemplating the day before me: I don't know what I'm going to do with myself.