I cease to write, fling the pen from me--full of disgust, full of disgust! I will make an end of it--alas, that, is an attitude too heroic for a dilettante. In the end I shall go on living, eating, sleeping; I shall gradually get used to the idea that I am dull, that I cut a wretched and ridiculous figure.
Thomas Mann

And it's one of those nights, the one in which one doesn't take the full bottle of because one's roommate is home and the cat wants love and it's almost Christmas, so what a cliché it would be. Besides, the catholic family doesn't need it. And my mother would blame someone entirely unrelated and make messes everywhere. What is it fear of that makes the smallest tasks insurmountable and the most tentative of situations unmoveable slabs pinning one down? O the drama! Bukowski is forever taking baths with a drink and trying to forget about it. Camus stands in the window eating eggs out of the pan and watches all the little people go by. Maggie Estep rubs herself raw and has a cigarette, vacuums the house.

Moral:
Instead of trying to do it again, go take a bath, get off, have some food and a cigarette, clean up & restore order. Get moving! Otherwise - and what a stupid way to spend an evening. Page seventyfuckingtwo indeed.