I feel like if I simply vomited on a few sheets of paper it would be roughly comparable to the creative nonfiction draft I'm trying to finish up. I hate when I hate what I'm writing. Ughhhh.
In unrelated news, my cousin and sister are coming to visit tomorrow. Yay! This means that my draft will necessarily be finished and my room will necessarily be clean by tomorrow morning, and there is some comfort in that . . . if I don't think about the time from now until that point. Blind productivity, that's how I roll.
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