...finds me paying for a weekend of sloth. Not the kind where you think, "Well, I needed a day (or two) to just decompress." No, this was the kind of deep and prolonged sloth that has you feeling just sick about yourself, yet seems impossible to break out of.
I've tagged this post "procrastination," but even that is too dignified to describe my weekend. Procrastination implies that you did something. Saturday, I did go out for some recreation. But my couch caught hold of me sometime Sunday afternoon. And the only reason that I got off the couch and put on shoes yesterday was for a brief social engagement with friends at 8 p.m. Seriously: I spent from 8 to 8 on the couch. About an hour of that was spent working. Torpor soaked into my brain like black sludge.
Then, because of guilt, I got home from the social engagement at 11 and worked until 2. and then got 5 1/2 hours of sleep. And got up. And I'm trying to focus on what I can get done this day, rather than what I didn't get done over the past four.