Timeframe: Roughly two hours or two days
Yesterday I woke up with a bright, go-getter outlook. Today is the day I will finish up unfinished business, I told myself with certainty.

Like the Count of Monte Cristo or Inigo Montoya, I would eradicate old debts - with the scabbard of my pen.

The main item being, see, this thing I’m applying for at this radio program in the Midwest that I would give my eyeteeth to be a part of. And eyeteeth are in high demand, nowadays. If I were on the staff of this show, or if they just let me put together stories for them now and again and slice lemons for their ice-water or whatever, I would kiss my sweet eyeteeth goodbye quite contentedly.

So what I needed to do yesterday, as part of my application, was to critique three of their radio stories that are not as good as they could be. I knew of one such story right away, that I’d heard a year or so ago, that had kind of sloppy editing. Much like the previous sentence. So I wrote up a quick little clever critique and then set my sights on finding two more such stories.

Which basically required listening to episode after episode of Favorite Radio Program on the Internet, seeking out radio stories I didn’t like.

And by midafternoon, I was rillyrilly tired of listening, and had found exactly zilch.

I had taken a few breaks throughout: Had eaten lunch with friends; had taken the dog out for a walk. But between doing those things, I returned to my desk to listen and listen to show after show, completely unable to find a damn thing to critique.

And now, my powers of distinguishing good from mediocre had been dulled. Dulled by the very sharpness of the show’s constant wit—A wit that had now become nothing short of grating, to me. If I had to hear one more epiphany, one more clever analogy, or one_more_freaking_story, I would hurl my Mac out the window.

So, yesterday, I would not call "good." Because when I decide to accomplish something, I go to it with a keen zest. But that zest can only sit at a computer chair for so long, biding its time. That zest can only listen and take in for so long before springing me into action or killing me from the inside. It's its own Count of Monte Cristo.