I haven't so much as turned on my sweet little laptop today.
On the train this morning, where I might ordinarily have banged out a few hundred words, I stared blankly at the Monday morning crossword in the free paper.
Over lunch, which in the last week I've spent at Starbucks trying to get a bit more story out before daylight vanishes, I went to the mall and feasted on edamame and spicy noodles with a coworker.
I'm guessing I won't get much done tonight, either.
I blame all this on my lack of sleep.
And I blame my lack of sleep on cookies.
I bought a little bag of chocolate chips at my local convenience store, the Happy Food Spot — which has bizarre hours and is cash-only, rendering it actually not very convenient at all — when I stopped in for a half-gallon of milk for the week to come.
When I got home, I flicked on autopilot and whipped up a batch of cookie dough.
Only I didn't have any vanilla extract.
And I mismeasured the sugar.
But that didn't stop me from dumping in the package of chips and dropping that dough by rounded spoonfuls on cookie sheets and sticking them in the oven at 375° F for nine to 11 minutes.
Except for the seven or eight…or nine…cookies' worth that I left in the big stainless steel bowl I'd mixed it in.
Which I took out of the kitchen and into my bedroom, where I proceeded to devour it. All of it, save for a few stray semisweet morsels. Over the course of two episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
After just a few mouthfuls, I thought to myself, "Hey, stop eating. It doesn't even taste that great."
Because it didn't. Cookie dough tastes a LOT different without vanilla. And too much sugar makes it gritty.
But I had told myself I could eat what was in the bowl. I hadn't eaten much that day, so a little treat didn't seem unreasonable.
So I ate it all.
And I thought to myself, "This is way too much. I'm going to be so sick later."
And what do you know? I was.
By the time the Knight showed up after his rehearsal, I was lolling around, listless, in bed. But completely unable to sleep.
I tossed and turned all night, my stomach twisting into deeper knots with every full rotation I made on my cramped half of the too-small bed. I was hot and a little panicked that I'd finally poisoned myself after tempting fate with too many raw ingredients consumed too many times.
The sugar had wound me up, and the egg and, y'know, quarter stick of butter hadn't helped anything.
I gross myself out. Hardcore.
And now I have the double shame of painful overindulgence plus no written work to show for myself today.
The rest of the week will be dedicated for making up for lost time. And untying the knots in my stomach.
Remember, kids: Pearls, heels and an apron are hot. Smudged glasses, stretched-out yoga pants and a sink full of beaters and mixing bowls, the soapy aftermath of a sweet tooth's excess? The twisted side of baking.
I don't even want to look at the finished product when I get home. Nor do I want to think about my life's other excesses — the ones I have to write about once I muster the energy to turn the little laptop back on.
For now, I just want to sleep.