I'm only happy when I write. It's as simple as that.

ETA:
Eight hourse of writing at work is much, much different than eight hours of simply BEING at work. Still, I got ten pages done and checked. My nape hurts, my eyes are sore and I'm watching beautifully young and naive Emily Blunt in My Summer of Love. Adorable camera work, and Edith Piaf. And teenagers drinking cognac. So sweetly decadent. Reminds me of the Contessa.