Thoughts that swirl in head on a PMS morn:

"Must apply for other jobs. Breakfast. Need to go for a walk. What is my quest? Oatmeal is good. Gawesh. What if big boss doesn't like promotion stuff? I wonder if I will be a success. I love british accents. What if I don't hear back from the places I applied? What if I bomb at the interview? What if everything I attempt today end up looking like crap on toast? What if I am just a dumb, unsubstantial report in a jazzy folder? Should I just stay in bed? Ohgawhud. Its been two and a half weeks since I went to the gym. Geez..I am staying in bed."

Physically unable to even look out of my bed. Shall call in, "Can't make it today. Have been incapacitated by my thoughts."

Alarm blares. Must open eyes to shut it. One eyelid is released, unwillingly.
And there it is, peeping at me, from the mag lying near my bed, Samuel Beckett's dryly, lovely comment:
"No matter. Try Again. Fail Again. Fail Better"

Samuel Beckett, ladies and gentleman. A man who found his purpose only at 40. Who taught us that waiting for something that never comes may disappoint us but sure makes great theatre.
Like Isaac M says, Clap for him, people.