squeequeg | Stupid cold.

2000 words written in the novel revision, so I suppose that means I'm feeling better. Granted, it was exposition-heavy and lumpy in places, but I'll have another revision before I send it to anyone, so it'll do. (Besides, it's part of the How It All Went To Hell bit of the story. Tough to avoid exposition there.)

I think the main thing I hate about being sick -- other than the way my body tried to produce enough mucus for the next year all at once -- is how much of a waste it is. I feel that if I'm taking the day off from work, I should be doing something useful with it (like writing), rather than lying in bed going "glaaaah." I should be getting laundry and dishes and useful chores done, not discovering that thanks to the cold medicine, I no longer have an attention span long enough to handle more than a comics page at once. (A page of text was right out.) I should be remembering and celebrating birthdays like

2h2o's and

ethicsgradient's, not taking half an hour to eat a goddamned piece of toast.

So yeah, I rather resent losing this last week. At least now I'm up and thinking, and can take care of

thomascantor if he catches what I had. Time to go get more chicken soup.