If it doesn’t rain, it pours

I fail miserably, I think. Just in general, mainly. I keep trying to read Flugasche, being all organised and setting myself 30 pages per day, but I get bored, who really cares about Josefa? I have so much reading to do, but I can’t bring myself to do it. There’s not that much when I actually get on with it, a day of Guigemar, a day of Astérix (still) and less than a week of Schwarzer Tee, it’s not unmanageable, that’s all I have. I need to finish my FrIm essay, which is probably wrong, and as much as I moan, I like the helplessness and darkness of Baudelaire’s poetry, it’s morbid and I think that appeals to me. Perhaps there’s something wrong? I don’t know, I think I like it though. Perhaps all the coffee inside me is messing with my head. Perhaps…