Sick. Tired. Dishes to be done. Cat to be fed. Writing indefinitely on hold.
Two weeks couldn’t be further away.
Today, I felt almost everything I read. Sparky: “I miss my drunken, extroverted, libidinous self.” Dude, you and me both. D: “Who knew that it could be so boring?” Fucking right, who knew. Something Andrea wrote about missing her friends, but then she deleted it.
I’m going to have a glass of scotch before bed, sickness be damned.