Honestly, if Monty Python came by my house this weekend with their death wagon, I might have gone ahead and thrust myself on the top and begged to be put out of my mystery. What misery I was vaguely aware of through a fever of 103° F, anyway. I was unlucky enough to come to from time to time and realize that I indeed still had a body, and yes it was not happy with existing. Then I took more medicine and went back into a lovely fever and NyQuil haze.
I didn’t even try to think about writing.
Yes, my blogging friends, I am sick. Again. Though this time it seems to be on the short-but-awful side.
Frankly, this is the first time I have trusted myself to even try and put together a few coherent sentences. I’ve got my fingers crossed on spelling. And grammar. And, well, still on the making sense. That just goes to show how bad I must have been before, that this is better.
So that is why everything has stopped for a few days. I’ll get my inspiration post up tomorrow, and the words will start flowing shortly after that.
This is part of the reason I try and get as many words as I can in during the first few days. Something always will come up.
Anyway, thanks for sticking with me. I’ll make more sense as my temperature continues to drop toward the she-might-live zone, and until then, irowboat is playing Arkham City, and watching him glide kick bad guys is just about as good as it gets for this sick girl.