I regret to inform you that yesterday was not a Thursday; and today is subsequentially not a Friday.
Yesterday, as I learned when I changed my calendar from July to August, was in fact a Sunday. This means that not only is today a Monday, (my favourite!) my birthday is not on a Wednesday. It's next Saturday. Today is still the fourth, just as I predicted, and my birthday is still the ninth, just as it always has been, and there are still five days between nine and four, no matter what name each day has.
Numbers are always more reliable than words, don't you think?
Today I tried, and failed, as usual, to change the things I don't like about myself. It's an ongoing process, and I am in fact making progress. Not as much as I would have hoped, but enough to give me hope, which is all we really need anyways. For example, last night, I planned on setting my alarm for eight o'clock and getting up to go run around the neighbourhood this morning. Don't be alarmed; these fits of delusional masochism are fairly frequent. Thankfully at around four this morning, (it may have actually been one, I think my clock is a couple hours ahead,) I realized how hazardous that could be to my remaining sanity and turned off the alarm. In that aspect, I failed. However, I did wake up at ten -- earlier than my usual two or three -- and ate breakfast, another rare occurance. I suppose I should be happy, having salvaged more of the day than usual; it just wasn't quite as much as I had aimed for, and as always, it seems I am destined to fall short of my goals.
Well, my lungs will thank me, the lazy bastards. I hate running.