"To all you good people in the Midwest, sorry we said "fuck" so much. "

The house is quiet. Everyone's out but me. Melancholy in the good way. Between periodically hacking up one and a half of my two precious lungs and a consistently sore throat, I watched an ill-gotten movie, drank approximately 8 million litres of water and basically finished the homework I wanted to do today.

The best thing, though, was that I wrote. Am writing currently. And it's not for school and I don't hate it. I've totally jinxed it now, I'm going to lose interest in the story in the next five minutes I bet. That's the story of me and writing. On Neil Gaiman's blog he was offering tips about writing or something and he said one of the most important parts of writing was finishing things. You never know if its good or not unless you finish it, something along those lines. Well, I never have. Maybe three things over the past ten years. And Jesus Christ I can never let anyone read anything. I think I let (made) Jo read a paragraph of something once and I was in a cold sweat the entire time. Okay, that might be an exaggeration, but you get the idea. Probably a good thing I don't want to be a writer "when I grow up".

So I've definitely been A LOT sicker but the sore throat is really irritating. It's hanging around in the background, rarely flaring up into anything but reminding me that I can't declare myself healthy and making me sluggish. The only good part about a cold is the relief that you get when you drink something cold. For a split second when it slides down your throat everything is back to normal, not red and hot and scratchy.