Mysterious illness. That’s what it is. I’m exhausted and a bit achy. I’ve got a just-sore-enough-to-be-annoying sore throat. The top floor of my skull feels like it’s filled with helium, while the basement (and mezzanine) feels like it’s filled with unfired clay and marshmallows. The goofy thing is that I don’t feel ill enough to take off work, (which is where I’m certain this disease originated), but I feel just crap enough to write about it here.
Complaining done. It’s not a cold worthy of more typing.
On the positive side, I’m sleeping and reading a lot. So I’ve decided to post my current reading list. Here’s what I’m surrounding myself with right now:
“Fragile Things” (Neil Gaiman) – Nearly done with it. Liking it a lot.
“Adverbs” (Daniel Handler) – Just starting it.
“The Road” (Cormac McCarthy) – Just starting it.
“Tooth and Claw” (T.Coraghessan Boyle) – I really like this, but forgot to finish the last couple of stories. I’m doing this now.
“Yoga for People Who Can’t Be Bothered” (Geoff Dyer) – Ugh. This one pissed me off regularly. I found it whining and pointless yet well written. Finished it because I felt I had to, and to see if there was anything good waiting for me at the end. Like a cake. Or an embroidered badge of achievement. I got neither.
It’s 8:30 PM. I’m going to curl up with my little stack of books and read myself to wellness. It feels indulgent and right.